Well Behaved Women Seldom Win Wars
by Velvet Nights and Satin Skies
Summary: Lizzie is in Mordor, hatching her evil plot, Sam is an elf, and Amy is madly in love with Legolas. Oh yeah, and the world might end. How will Sam fill Orome's debt? Will Lizzie die? Will Amy actually act on her feelings?
1. Having Doubts, Are We?

**A/N: First chapter of the third book! If you're new to this story, none of this will make any sense, so go back and start with "Well Behaved Women Seldom Make History" and then "Well Behaved Women Seldom Kick Butt". **

**To old readers, tell me if there's enough doubt between Amy and Legolas. I mean, giving up eternity isn't a willy-nilly thing, so I think Legolas would harbor _some_ doubts over true love. Anyway, tell me what you think. Not much Lizzie POV, I promise I'll make up for it in the next chapter. But sometimes I _reeeealllly_ just want to slap the little thing.**

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><p>A stiff gray breeze tousled her curls as she looked out over the inlet of land that was visible from the mighty walls of Helm's Deep. A mere two feet to her left was a sheer drop, easily seventy feet down, where the explosive had hewed a gap in the impassable stone. Before her, she saw nothing but death and decay. Flies were buzzing stickily as they chewed at the rotting Uruk flesh. The monsters were even more ugly when they were dead; their armor bloodstained, teeth bared in ugly grimaces frozen horrifically onto their faces. The men of Rohan had been gathered, their bodies prepared for proper burial. Behind her, she heard women still sobbing their hurts to the uncaring winds and the sneering black mountains which surrounded the city. She felt awkward whenever she was around them - she gave comfort readily and easily, but she had lost nothing. Sam was alive, Aragorn was alive, and Gimli was alive. They had all lived, pulled through the battle. But more importantly, Legolas was alive. She dropped her gaze automatically whenever she thought of the blond Elvish prince. She realized her mistake now, realized that she was only hurting herself more by allowing herself to be attracted to him. He was an elf. Immortal, undying, eternally handsome. He was off-limits, and she was only torturing herself by allowing her her heart to blend with his. But she laughed so readily around him; he made her smile, made her feel beautiful, if only for a moment. The way he looked at her, the way he always tucked those irritating curls behind her ears, that smile that flicked the corner of his mouth - it was all so familiar. The way he kissed her - he hadn't allowed her to pass by with only a peck on the cheek, now had he? Didn't that mean something? But things were different now - he had survived. Replaying the scene in her mind, she decided she didn't regret it. Neither of them had thought they would live the night. In an insane world, it had seemed the sanest choice - but now, a new dawn was arising, and their relationship had changed. Things were different.<p>

He watched her on the walls, watched her red curls tumble around her face. She looked so serious, so solemn - that wasn't the Amy he knew. He knew her little habits, the way she chewed on her nails, her constant worry for people she loved, her concern for all living thing. She was gentle, soft, sweet. But war had changed her, hardened her, filed off her soft edges and made them slightly sharper day by day, chipping her into a statue of marble with razor sharp edges. Her green eyes, the color of new leaves coming out in the spring, were distant and lost, gauzed lightly with pain as she stared at the corpses beneath her. She had bathed and rested, changing clothes, but her scrubbed face couldn't hide the dark circles beneath her eyes, nor her new clothes give her the appearance of the beautiful young woman she was. The wind increased, howling angrily around the hidden crevices in the mountainside, whistling and ringing its triumph to the heavens, but still Amy stayed, staring out at the foggy horizon. A new day was dawning, he realized. They had both changed. Neither of them would ever be the same, both changed forever by the War of the Ring. The war which was not yet over, the war which was only just beginning. Amy had survived terrors most women would die from, and yet she stayed strong. He felt a warm prickle sweep his body as he continued to watch her - of all the ellith which he had entertained, none had compared to her. And she was nothing compared to most ellith - she was short, with fiery red curls and a tender disposition. The ellith his father wanted him to marry were beautiful, with long, slender bodies and doe eyes. They would love him, he knew, and they would stay loyal. But they weren't what he wanted. And he wondered idly, distantly, on the windswept wall, why he was attracted to her. They made the most unlikely pair - but then again, he never would have put Arwen and Aragorn together at all. He was attracted to Amy, he knew that - if her kiss had meant anything at all, she felt the same way. But did he love her? Was he willing to give up eternity to spend a few years with a mortal woman?

Both of their serious thoughts were interrupted by Sam climbing up the steps. Legolas turned because his fine Elvish hearing could pick up almost anything - Amy turned because she knew instinctively when Sam was around. Legolas stepped into a stairwell, not wanting to interrupt Sam and Amy's talk, but not before he got a brief glimpse of Sam. Sam's new race suited her - in the week they had spent rebuilding Helm's Deep, her body had grown taller, slimmer, harder. Her ears were pointed, but almost constantly hidden beneath her shaggy brown hair. Even that familiar aspect was changing, however - her hair was getting longer, reaching the middle of her back. She wore a crimson tunic, belted at the waist by some dark strip of leather, and some sort of ambiguous leggings beneath her thigh-length tunic. Her Cheshire-cat grin was curving the corner of her mouth, and she nudged Amy on the shoulder, gold-brown eyes flickering animatedly as she surveyed her friend. "Hey," Sam said simply, and jerked her chin at the battlefield. "Gross, isn't it? Why are you looking at something so morbid?"

"Because," Amy said, voice slightly hoarse from not speaking for a while. "I wanted to see why so many people died. Why they threw themselves at these beasts if they knew they were going to die."

"If you want to know that," Sam said, voice sounding frosty, "you should turn around. They died to save their families. Women and children. People they loved. That's why." She paused, noticing that Amy hadn't turned around yet. "You okay?"

"Not really," Amy said, and wiped her eyes. She hadn't remembered crying, but the tears were drying on her cheeks and making her cold. "Why are we _here_, Sam?" she broke out. "Why are we here? How many people are in America - _billions_. And out of those billions of people, why us? What do we have that makes us any different?"

"Homesick, huh?" Sam said, leaning her elbows on the wall and propping her chin in her hands. Her eyes were half-closed, lazy looking almost, but Amy knew she was thinking. "I dunno," she finally said. "I don't know why we're here. I don't know why I'm an elf. I don't know why we're seeing stupid gods - or Valar, or whatever the hell they're called. I don't know why we could die at any second, and I don't know why there's a war going on, and I don't know why a dumb ring separated us. I don't know why, Amy, and neither does anybody else. We're winging it, we're going with the flow. If life changes, _you_ gotta change. So we changed, and you don't like it. I don't know why, Amy. I'm sorry."

Amy looked bleakly over the fields of butchered corpses. For a long moment, neither of them said a word. Then she sighed, expelling a breath between her teeth. "I'm sorry. I'm being stupid and morbid, you're right." She picked idly at a hangnail. "When are we leaving?"

"Well, Mr. Bossypants wants to leave soon," Sam said, rolling her eyes. "You know he gets itchy when there's killing to be done."

"Who, Aragorn?" Amy asked.

"No, Gimli. I wouldn't put it past him to kill something that was already dead. Now c'mon, Eomer's setting us up with horses and stuff." Sam said. The two girls descended the crumbling steps, avoiding the missing stairs and chunks of rock which were completely gone. Legolas waited a moment, his eyes closed, and then took a breath.

He and Amy needed to have a talk. The sooner the better.

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><p>The barn was dark and smelled of deliciously of hot horse and old hay, mingling together in a country smell that tingled the girls' noses. Shadows leaped from behind stacks of hay and bags of feed, stretching and warping the light until it was more shadow than daylight. The walls were smooth, whitewashed stone, carefully painted with a deft hand. Stalls broke the large barn into sections, and there was the muted sound of chewing coming from all corners. Glittering dark eyes peered from the darkness, surveying the two girls who were fumbling their way through the dim light. A few restless colts stirred, shuffling their feet, sending up tiny plumes of sawdust and hay which caused Sam to sneeze. There were no windows, but the horses didn't seem to mind; the girls could see halters and crude leather saddles hanging on the walls, along with currycombs and faded ribbons to be braided in their tails. A few of the stalls had a marking on it, symbols drawn hastily in Rohirric, and Amy could see they marked pregnant mares. A few of them had different symbols, and Sam could see the wobbly-legged foals resting in a tight bundle by their mother's hooves. The pathway was narrowly drawn, so Amy and Sam had to walk single file, which meant Sam bumped into Eomer first. "Hey," she said, backing up and causing Amy to walk into her. There was a few muttered scuffles, and then Eomer's smile broke the gloom. He had a broad, comely smile, and it suited his face very well.<p>

"Forgive me, ladies, I was merely tarrying a moment to be sure your horses are ready for departure." he said, patting the neck of a big brown horse. The horse was large and beautiful, dark brown with a black mane and tail. It swished its tail lazily as it eyed the girls suspiciously, dark liquid eyes half closed. Eomer was loading up saddlebags on the simple leather saddle, filling them with flat packages and round loaves. The food looked scarce, but at least they would have something to gnaw on. Amy looked apprehensively at the horse, and Eomer caught his. "Not overly fond of horses, are you?" he asked with a knowing smile.

"No, no, I like horses," Amy said, patting the horse on the nose. "Just...I like them...smaller, is all."

"Well, I can assure you that you won't find a pony more docile than Glandur," Eomer assured her. "He's suited better to a larger horseman, but you'll be able to ride him just fine. Here, take his reins, I'll go fetch his brother, Alandur." Amy led the horse out into the weak sunlight and tentatively stroked his neck. The gelding tossed his head once, testing the air with his large, sensitive nostrils, and then allowed the petting to resume. Another dark horse, almost identical except for two white stockings on his back feet, was out of the barn, being led by Eomer, who seemed as though he was having a little trouble controlling him. Sam looked delighted at the thought of riding a rogue horse.

"Uh, I can take Alandur," she said, reaching up to take his reins. Eomer seemed hesitant about handing them over, but the conversation stopped when Theoden's voice broke through the air. The king was approaching them, Legolas, Gimli, Aragorn and Gandalf behind him. He seemed irked that Amy and Sam were by his nephew.

"He is a spirited horse, child," Theoden-King said. "Have you much experience riding horses?"

Sam spat a breath between her teeth, scowling at Theoden. "Are you saying you don't think I can handle it?" she demanded. Theoden, apparently annoyed at being spoken to in this insolent tone, took the defensive.

"I did not think that _women_ would be accompanying us into a possibly hostile situation." he said.

Amy buried her face in her hands. "Uh-oh," she breathed.

Sam was furious. "You better listen up, buddy, because I, a _woman_, can kick your sorry kingly butt from here to Mordor without breaking a sweat." she growled.

"I thought our situation was hostile, not our company," Aragorn said, trying to lighten the mood. Sam turned to him angrily.

"Oh, you think I'm hostile now, you just wait until tonight!"

Amy and Legolas exchanged exasperated glances. It was going to be a long ride if they didn't do something about this now. "Sam, he is a _king_," Amy reminded her. Theoden looked pleased that someone had finally remembered. Sam looked apoplectic with rage that someone had reminded her.

"King or no king, I can still kick his -" Sam said, but Amy cut her off.

"Yes, yes, we know, now get on the stupid horse before you get him really ticked off." Amy snapped, using an unusually annoyed tone. She wasn't usually this chafed at Sam's impudence and lack of social etiquette, but today everything was grating on her nerves. Sam gave her a surprised look before swinging herself on Alandur, settling herself on top of the horse. She glanced at Amy, who was still scowling, and then trotted a few paces away from the barn.

Amy had certainly changed, and it wasn't for the better. Sam hoped one day Amy would be the old, nervous, fussy Amy, not the new, annoyed, angry Amy. She wondered what was getting on Amy's nerves. It would be something to think about on the ride to Isenguard. Although, judging by the way Legolas was looking at her, she had a pretty good idea already.

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><p>Lizzie was up to her knees in mud.<p>

Now, this wouldn't have been an overly dangerous situation, if she was in a spa with a healing facial mask on her face and the mud was warm. But in Middle Earth, she was wearing uncomfortable leather riding clothes, up to her knees in frigid mud that chilled her to the bone, and, worst of all, she hadn't applied her facial mask in over three months. It was enough to drive any girl crazy, but Lizzie decided she was made of stronger stuff. Ahead of her was one ratty-looking Orc who said he knew the way to Mordor, and behind her were six Uruks who she forced to accompany her. These were all that was left of the twelve she had started out with - two had been sucked down into the swamp, three had gotten into a brawl and ended up killing each other, and the last one had wandered off, never to be seen again. Lizzie had her work cut out for her just keeping them from eating each other, and this was largely accomplished by her ever-frequent blows to their shoulders, which was as high as she could reach. The Uruks, however, were rather surly, and they were staring at her as the mud kept sucking her down farther into the swamp. Not one of them had moved to help her; actually, the ratty looking Orc was looking at her with a rather hopeful expression on his face.

Using mostly her elbows, she dragged herself from the mud puddle. Spitting out a clump of blond hair and swiping her too-long bangs from her eyes, she stood on the mostly-solid pathway which the rest were standing on. She wrung out her pants as best she could, disliking the feeling of sticky, sweaty, muddy clothes on her body, but there wasn't anything she could do about it. She looked at the Uruk-hai with a growl, and then marched over to the Orc. It was a puny little thing, and it didn't take much for her to lift him by his shoulder guards and hoist him to eye level. He didn't weigh much, and it looked impressive. She had seen it in a movie once. "Next time," she snarled. "Make sure there aren't any mud patches in my way. Or else."

The poor little Orc didn't know what he was supposed to do if there _was _a mud puddle, but he didn't want to find out what the 'or else' meant either. Lizzie, after all, had a reputation. "Y-yes, Mistress. Not long to Mordor now, only a few days, Mistress."

Lizzie put him back on the ground and kept following him, teeth grinding impatiently. They had better reach Mordor soon, otherwise heads were going to roll.

And nobody wanted that to happen.

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><p><strong>AN: Yes, I shamelessly stole the quote "You think I'm hostile now? You just wait until tonight!" from _My Cousin Vinny. _That is a completely amazing movie, which I hope none of you young kids have watched. But when you're older (Like my age), maybe your parents will let you watch it. It's hysterical. :) **


	2. One Does Not Simply Walk Into Mordor

**A/N: Short chapter, sorry! But we have a bit of an update on Lizzie's situation. I'm not sure how this chapter came out, my brain is elsewhere. Enjoy anyway. Please leave a review and make my day. 8D**

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><p>Alandur's hooves made hard, rounded impressions in the supple mud, which sank treacherously beneath his weight. The path they were walking on was unstable and crossed frequently with new, powerful rivers that needed to be detoured around. The breakage of the dam had created hundreds of these fast streams, which were deep and thick from the spring rains and the massive overflow. The once fruitful plains had been irreparably damaged by the Orcs, and they could all see the damage: long gouges in the earth that were now filled with water, stripped trees providing homes for new moss, and scorch marks that were being soothed by the tumultuous water flow. A stagnant pond was off to their left, rubble dotting the circumference, with a slimy tree branch poking from the center. It reminded Sam eerily of the pond where the Watcher lived. The skies were gray and downy, thick clouds obscuring the sunlight and allowing only the barest trickle to filter through. A raw wind struck out angrily against their faces and hands, chapping the exposed skin, and Sam shivered. Spring was hesitant to arrive in the dreary, war-ravaged land of Middle Earth. The horses tossed their noses a little against the bitter breezes, and Sam spotted the long, irregular shape of Isenguard splotching the sky like the beginnings of an infection. The water had pooled around it, filling the moat and rising steadily, brooks passing by, unhindered, as the once-mighty fortress began to crumble silently. Gigantic moving shapes in the distance caught Sam's attention, she she realized with shock that they were trees. Huge, moss-covered, spiny trees that were picking up bits of rubble and channeling the streams into one flow. A few of them had hideous burns marring their sturdy oaken flesh, others were missing limbs – literally. One or two of them waved to Gandalf and Théoden, who were leading the procession, and the stern-faced wizard and king waved back.<p>

All of this, however, flew from Sam's mind when she saw two very small, familiar faces sitting on a pile of rubble, out of the wind. Merry and Pippin were sitting there, clad in their trousers and vests – now considerably worse for wear – and munching on some eatables. Pippin was smoking heartily from his buckthorn pipe, and Merry had his small fist clamped around the largest haunch of pork Sam had seen in her entire life. She dismounted without a second through, startling Glandur and causing Alandur to rear slightly. She threw herself at her friends. "Merry! Pippin! Oh, you idiots! We were looking all over for you!"

"And the best mornin' to you as well, Lady Sam," Merry said, allowing himself to be picked up and squeezed in a bear hug. Breathlessly, she put him down and employed the same reaction towards Pippin.

"Yes, we have women throw themselves at us regularly," Pippin said, his voice slightly slurred from his ale and his pipe weed. However, Gimli was not as grateful to see the Hobbits and he shook a fist at them.

"A merry dance you've led us through!" he shouted. "We traipse across all manner o' lands to find you, and what do we see? Two fat liddle Hobbits eating 'n' smokin'!" Gimli grumped. Sam was doing a little war dance that made her look clinically insane, and she was smiling hard enough to make her cheeks ache. But she couldn't resist – there is something marvelously intoxicating about finding out that two friends you previously thought lost to you forever to be alive. She would have cried, if she hadn't cried far too much over the past few months and determined herself to be babyish for crying so much. So she settled for hugging the breath from her friends, and then sitting down next to them. Merry, upon regaining his breath, reached behind him and pulled out an identical roast to match his.

"Eat with us, Lady Sam," he encouraged. "Let Treebeard an' the rest deal with him."

"There is no time for pleasantries," Gandalf said brusquely. "Come, Hobbits. There is no time to lose." Sam reluctantly pulled herself back on Alandur, who whinnied sharply and swished his tail. Merry and Pippin led them down the path, Pippin staggering purposefully and giggling occasionally. With their horses at a slow trot, they went up the path to Isenguard.

From a distance, it was large. Up close, it was monstrous. It spiked to the sky, tearing at the air with jagged edges and a harsh, sharp kind of beauty. It was one huge single peak stretching to the sky, and a broken drawbridge led to a massive oaken door. A mill wheel, colossal iron spikes driven firmly into it, was rusting in the water, and Sam wondered distantly what it was for. Sleek black stone pillars were crumbling in the overflowing moat, and Alandur backed up slightly, his hooves sinking into the spongy ground. On the rooftop, there was a white clad figure. From this distance, not many details could be seen, but he was clad in pure white, similar to Gandalf, but with a black stripe down the middle of his beard. His eyes were dark and glittering, and he surveyed the small band with disdain. Gimli, naturally, had the best and most straightforward solution. "Legolas, can you hit 'im from here?"he muttered.

"Hold your bow, Master Elf," Gandalf murmured under his breath. "He has been deep in the enemy's council. We need his information."

"So hold him at bow-point and tell him to spill his guts or we'll spill his," Sam said conversationally, naturally inclined to be warlike. Gandalf silenced her with a dirty look. Saruman stood stone still, a little smirk settling on his face.

"Théoden-King...Have you not always made peace with your enemies? You have fought great wars and slain great men, but are you not inclined to make peace? Dismiss your –" here his lip curled as he looked at the little knot of warriors, – "-guards, and we shall talk."

"There will be peace," Théoden said slowly, looking at Saruman with dreadful anger written on his face, "There shall be peace, but it does not come from your hand, Saruman the Poisoner! Peace will come when the slain bodies of women and children are paid for by your blood! There will be peace when your body lies broken and lifeless from a roof beam with maggots eating your worthless flesh! There will be peace, Saruman, but not today. Today, I come to avenge my men who lie dead and whose bodies are wet with the tears of their loved ones!" When he had finished, Théoden looked livid. Amy felt like applauding.

"Maggots and crows, you speak of," Saruman said idly, not seeming a bit surprised at the anger in Théoden's voice, "And yet, I fail to see any of you take action against me. The elf does not draw his bow – the dwarf does not reach for his axe." His black eyes roamed over the group and settled on Gandalf. "What do you want, Gandalf the Gray? Do you wish for me to surrender? I suppose you also desire the crowns of the Seven Kings and the rods of the Five Wizards! Speak sense, man!"

"Your deception has caused the death of many, Saruman," Gandalf said calmly. "And yet, you feel no remorse. Your wrongs shall be righted if you speak to us. You were once deep in the enemy's council – what news? When does Sauron plan to attack?"

"So, that is the reason for your visit," Saruman sneered. From within a fold in his robe, he withdrew a glass ball, roughly the size of a softball. It was filled with swirling black smoke, clinging like gauze to a veil of death, and it pushed angrily against the glass confines of its fragile prison. Saruman clenched it in his fist and the smoke darkened even further. "You desire information, Gandalf Grayhame? I have some for you!" The black smoke in his palantir turned a vivid crimson and a ghastly orange, flickering flames spreading into the shape of an eye. The pupil was black, blacker than any other black in the world, as if every shred of deception and suffering and darkness had been melted down and solidified into this one, glaring, savage pupil which was centered amid the roaring flames. Saruman grinned manically. "A disease festers in the heart of Middle Earth – none of you see it, you are all blind! But the Great Eye sees all, and he will soon use it to his advantage. He will strike fast and soon, and you shall be caught unawares!" His grin widened and he looked down at Gandalf with a slightly crazed look in his eyes. "But you know this, don't you? The all powerful, all wise Gandalf sees all! Do you pretend that this _Ranger_ will sit upon the throne of Gondor? He disgraces his lineage by the very breath he breathes! What lies did he tell you, Ranger?" Saruman demanded, glaring at Aragorn. "Did he whisper the same lies in your ears that he told the Halfling, even as he sent him off to his death? Do you believe him when he claims to 'love' his companions! See how he 'loved' the Halfling, even as he suffers alone!"

"Shut the hell up!" Sam snarled. She turned to Legolas. "Kill him! C'mon!"

"Aye, he's said enough!" Gimli growled. "Stick an arrow in 'is gob!"

Legolas reached for an arrow, but Gandalf stopped him with a shout. "No! Saruman, come down and parley with us, and your life shall be spared!"

"Spare your pity," Saruman sneered, "Save it for those who need it. Pity those _women_," he hissed, eyeing the bold-faced Sam and the now-completely-terrified Amy, "those _women_ who fight as though they were men! Pity yourselves, for the wrath of Sauron will be great upon those who defy him! DO NOT PITY ME!"

"Saruman!" Gandalf thundered, "Your staff is broken!"

There was a sickening, blinding, white-hot flash that spread from Saruman's hand and cracked across the sky like thunder and lightning all rolled into one. The sky slowly swallowed the flicker of light, and Saruman's staff fell slowly from the sky, shards littering down upon the small group. Behind Saruman, there skulked a man, wiry and thin, gaunt cheeks deathly pale, eyes black and terrified. Stringy black hair curled greasily over his ears, and he peered myopically at the enraged Saruman. Théoden spotted him. "Grima! Come down!" he called. "You were once a man of Rohan, a _true_ man of Rohan! You may yet be a man of Rohan, if you are free of him!"

"A man of Rohan?" Saruman sneered. "Pah! The men of Rohan are savages, scraping their living among their horses and their uncouth mannerisms! Their children play in the mud with their dogs, growing up wild and savage – just like their king!" Saruman finished, long hair swinging in his eyes.

None of them expected what came next.

In every man, woman, and child, there is a breaking point. Some of us reach our breaking point every day, and others never find theirs. Some can bear burdens of others along with our own, while others struggle to carry their own sins. But in every soul, there is a cliff which we are pressed against, the ocean miles below us, the edge only inches away. And some of us hang there, teetering on the brink, for what seems like years, until we exhale and step forward, away from the drop. Because we know that if we jump, our lives will never be the same. We will do things we will always regret. But others find themselves pushed, still others slip, and a few of us throw ourselves over the edge, fury in our hearts.

Grima reached his cliff edge, and jumped.

The knife was in his hand before anyone could react, flashing once in the dim light as he brought it down on Saruman's back, slicing cleanly between his ribs. He withdrew it in the flicker of an eyelash, and plunged it in again, driving it home with all the power he had in him. It was the one damning, noble action he had ever one in his life, and it was both a blessing and grief. Gandalf shouted out something incoherent, and Amy felt the shudder of energy pass by her as Legolas let an arrow fly. Legolas, the excellent marksman that he was, hit Grima straight on, and the black-clad man of Rohan clutched his heart, dying even as he began to live for the first time. Saruman tumbled from the highest pinnacle of Isenguard, his fall ending with a sickening crunch as he was impaled upon the spikes of the mill wheel. Even Sam wrinkled her nose.

The scourge of Isenguard had been lifted, but at a terrible price.

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><p>As they crested the hill, the stench hit her, and Lizzie wrinkled her nose. Orcs did not smell pretty – Orcs smelled <em>disgusting<em>. She had been living among Orcs and Uruks for several weeks now, and had basically gotten used to the smell, but when they rounded the corner, the awful stench of thousands of Uruks hit her. She coughed once and continued on gamely, forced to use her hands and feet to climb up the rocky hill. Below her, spread out like some ghoulish tapestry, was the Orc-camp. It was as though Halloween had settled here and never left. Skulls, of all species, their mouths grinning hollowly, were spiked in front of tents and crudely thatched houses. Orange bonfires raged and spat yellow sparks into the smoggy black sky. Shadows crowded around the massive encampment, mountains pressing in from all sides, and frightening silhouettes danced and capered before the bonfires. Shrieks and hideous laughs bounced from the hillsides, sounding like baying hyenas, and Lizzie felt a ripple of fear stroke down her spine. It was a city, of sorts – the outskirts had only tents for shelter, but deeper to the core the dwellings were nicer, more permanent. At the very center was the massive mountain which was Mordor, the twisting stairs and fortresses built against the slopes of its sides. Her company – or what was left of it – looked at the huge city and grunted in excitement. Finally, they would be able to stop and rest, perhaps get something to eat. Their leader, however, was looking at Mordor with something akin to distaste. The Uruks who accompanied her felt anger burn in the pit of their stomachs. So their kind wasn't good enough for her, eh? Wisely, they elected to say nothing, but they all remembered the look of disdain upon Lizzie's pretty face.

The path downwards sloped steeply, and when they reached the bottom Lizzie considered herself lucky that she hadn't turned her ankle. The Uruks were panting now, eager to be home, and Lizzie marched forward, keeping up with the runty little Orc who had survived thus far without losing any noticeable limbs. Behind her and on either side, the Uruks silently formed an open-ended square formation, creating a meat shield around her, in case their brethren hadn't eaten today. Orcs and Uruks pushed their way out from tents, gathering close to the path to see who was arriving. Some of them were sharpening swords and patching leather armor, but others had nothing to do but glower at the newcomers and hiss vile threats. The new Commander – for those were the only Outsiders who were allowed a company of Uruks to protect them – was small, and a _woman_! She was beautiful by Human standards, with long blonde hair flowing down her back and sharp blue eyes. She glared right back at them, but a few more astute Orcs noticed the ghosting of fear across her face. Good. To properly order the horde, one had to fear it first. She followed the scrawny Orc up the twisting pathways towards Mordor, disliking the feeling of so many eyes on her. They were ugly things, a good head shorter than her, with sallow skin and long ears. Orange-and-yellow teeth were bared in nasty grins as they watched their new Commander file up the path, and their hair was stringy and oily. They seemed faster and harsher than the Orcs and Uruks at Isenguard, but Lizzie kept this to herself.

It took almost an hour to get to the very center of the Orc-Camp, where Mordor stood, to the tower itself, and along the way Lizzie's nerves had been shredded. Uruks and Orcs of all shapes and sizes had pushed and gathered along with her, jeering and yelling, clashing spears and banging shields. As they approached the center, Lizzie could feel a growing dread steal over her – it was a hopelessness, a nameless fear creeping on her unawares. The very aura of the place stank of death. Her Uruks did a splendid job of keeping the mobs back, but they couldn't stop the voices from reaching over to her. They screamed insults, horrible sing-song words that rhymed in a grating, terrible rhythm, and Lizzie's ears crinkled from their shrill laughter. It dissolved into a crowd of jabbering, yelping animals that could not be made sense of, and Lizzie wanted to clamp her hands over her ears. She couldn't hear herself think.

Then, suddenly, everything went deathly quiet.

Orcs began fleeing from the path silently, running back into their tents or huts, running away from a black shadow that swept over them with the noise of a whispering ghost. Even her Uruks began looking uneasy when the shape passed over a second time, and Lizzie didn't dare look up. Then, a gigantic winged beast landed directly in front of her with enough force to make an earthquake run for cover. It was a sleek, powerful, scaled creature, with a head larger than the average car. Tiny black eyes glittered wildly as it beat its huge leathery wings against the air, blowing Lizzie's hair back. It had no front legs, simply two back legs, thick as tree trunks, and claws the size of a sword digging into the earth. Fangs the length of Lizzie's arm were feet from her face as the beast shrieked, a high-pitched, ringing shriek that sounded like a T-Rex in pain. Lizzie almost died, clapping her hands over her ears and squeezing her eyes shut. She looked up after her head stopped ringing and peered fearfully at whatever was sitting on top of the dragon. A shape, clad entirely in wispy black robes that seemed less than air at the very edges, almost as if he were an illusion, was sitting on top of the dragon. He pointed one mailed hand at Lizzie.

"Come with me," it hissed, the words snakelike and ghostly, low and raspy as though the grave itself were speaking. "The Dark Lord wishes to speak with you."

With a gulp, Lizzie allowed herself to be pulled roughly on top of the dragon. The mailed hand felt less than substantial, like metal wrapped around air. But the grip was icy cold and wickedly strong, and Lizzie felt herself sitting on top of the dragon, legs straddling the creature with difficulty, and hands reaching automatically for something to hold onto. There was nothing. There was a back-kick like a shotgun blast as the dragon – or whatever it was – took off from the ground, leaping into the air with outspread wings. Lizzie would have slipped off, but some unseen force prevented her from moving. With a hammering heart and trembling hands, she watched as the Ringwraith directed his freakin' epically sized mount towards the tower.

After all, one does not simply walk into Mordor.


	3. For A Moment

**A/N: Enjoy! Short chapter, I'm afraid, but enjoy anyway. I felt this was kind of sappy and mushy, but hey, that rocks some people's boats. PLEASE PLEASE PLEAS REVIEW! Cookie to all who do!**

The banquet hall was blazing with lights – lanterns hung on the walls, torches flamed in sconces, and the two fireplaces were tonguing ribbons of flames around thick logs. Beautifully woven tapestries, depicting heroic battles in minute detail, hung on the walls elegantly, and wide satin ribbons were wound around all the pillars. The flagstones were scrubbed clean, and everything was hazed with the busy chatter of conversation. Women dressed in scanty, frilled outfits were plucking lyres and humming tunes, thumping tambourines against their round hips lightly as they danced to their gentle, lulling music. They wore brass earrings that winked dully in the light, their dark hair and eyes giving them a wild, exotic look. More than one soldier was eyeing them with interest, but they moved out of the way with practiced ease. Massive tables lined the hallway, leaving a space at the very front for dancing, and the timbers were buckling under the weight of platters of food. On one table, nine oaken barrels were propped on their sides, pewter mugs ready for filling, standing sentry next the the barrels which were dripping foamy ale. Crisped turkeys and fatty geese were fringed by crunchy-looking potatoes and stewed carrots. A haunch of meat was being turned by a small boy at one of the fireplaces, and he looked agog at the crowd of people and the surplus of food. Rohirric men had shaved, bathed, rested, and removed their armor – they no longer resembled fierce warriors, but regular men, with long dirty-blonde hair and deep laughs. Over everything, however, there was a layer of grief tanging the air, a subtle element that skirted away, unbidden, whenever one focused on the feeling. The city had finally grown quiet – the dead had mostly been buried, and the walls were being rebuilt with fresh blocks of rough-hewn stone. But they had lost much – so much, so many lives had been ruthlessly snatched from boys and the elderly. Women burying their twelve-and-thirteen year old boys had not been a sight to forget, and their minds were all branded with her gaunt, horrified face, streaked with soot and tears and hate. The bodies of the Uruks had been defiled by enraged women and girls – they lay decaying, piled in a heap, their bodies burning far in the distance. They hadn't been looted, but instead, they were stabbed with pitchforks and slashed with scythes, grieving women taking out their anger on dead bodies, screaming the names of their lost loved ones as they wreaked vengeance on corpses.

Théoden stood at the front of the hall, dressed in kingly attire. A crimson robe, trimmed with snowy ermine, was hanging on his shoulders, and his armor was gone. Hanging at his hip was his sword, which he apparently carried everywhere, and he cut a much better figure when properly washed and cleaned. He flicked a hand at the dancing girls, and they moved silently, slender bodies and long fingers swaying gracefully to some unknown tune that played in their heads. Mugs full of frothy ale were passed around, men taking the large chalices from the beautiful, dark-skinned girls, and staring at the ale as if it held secrets to the universe. Sam found a mug of ale also pressed into her hand, and she pulled a face without knowing it. This substance was killing her mother, in another world – perhaps her mother was already dead. Her father had died in an intoxicated state – then again, he had always been intoxicated. Sam set the mug aside firmly and folded her arms tightly, the bittersweet scent of new beer trickling through the air. Amy, who was sitting next to her, refused the drink, shaking her red curls and offering a little smile. Sam caught her gaze and the two of them smiled a little at each other. It was hard to be truly happy, hard to act as though they were celebrating, when so much was lost. Théoden cleared his throat loudly, and the hall gradually fell silent. He extended his chalice of ale in a salute to the warriors. "We drink in memory of those whom we have lost," he said, his voice ringing throughout the hall. "We drink for those who shed their lives for us. We hail them now, with our respect. Hail the victorious dead."

"Hail," the crowd murmured, and men downed their ales. Slowly, the men put their mugs down and shot a quick missive to the Valar, thanking them for their lives and praying that their loved ones rested safely with them. Sam and Amy fidgeted uncomfortably, watching a few of the soldiers get up and get food. Sam glanced at Amy – the redhead was beautiful tonight. Eowyn had insisted that they dress up, and only Sam had balked. Not surprisingly, Amy wanted to dress up and feel pretty for once. She was wearing a borrowed dress of Eowyn's, a beautiful blue gown that was the exact color of the night sky. A white shawl, a silken strand of material clasped at her throat and flowing over her shoulders, was trimmed with clouds of lace and complimented her freckled face nicely. Eowyn had fussed over her hair, finally settling over pulling it away from her neck and pinning it at the nape of her neck with an ivory pin. Amy was beautiful – she looked much older than she really was; she looked like a woman. Sam, on the other hand, had grudgingly allowed Eowyn to dress her in a skirt and corset, under the stipulation that she be allowed to wear leggings beneath it. A dark colored skirt and white corset was helped by a red vest that made her slim figure seem a little fuller and less sharp. Her hair, that messy rat's nest that usually hung shaggily in her eyes, was pulled back in a rather nice braid that descended down her back. Sam looked greedily at the meat. "I haven't had meat," she said, licking her lips, "not proper meat, anyway, since we left home. And this looks really good."

"I'm not hungry," Amy said, raising her voice to be heard over the voices of Rohirric soldiers and the fast-paced, blood-stirring music that was being played by the gypsies. Sam took a plate and began spearing chunks of goose from a platter, scooping off a healthy portion of crispy potatoes and soft carrots. The smell wafted over to Amy, and her mouth watered. It smelled amazingly good – you can't imagine how good it smelled unless you've killed your own goose and roasted it over an open fire, then smothered it in layers of its own gravy. "Well, maybe just a little," Amy conceded, and took a plate for herself. She sliced off a moderate portion of goose and some potatoes, then sat back down. Wine and beer was flowing like water, but she still considered herself underage, so she took a mug of cold water. Have you ever eaten goose? Well, neither had Amy, and if roasted right, goose is one of the best birds to eat. It was buttery smooth, fatty, and tasted like the smokiest turkey ever eaten. The skin was satisfyingly crisped, and it shattered under Amy's teeth as she devoured her meal. Goose tastes especially good when the only thing you've had to eat in several months is skinny hare, roasted over a guttering fire, and dry _lembas_ bread.

After Amy finished, she stood up and looked around for Sam. The brunette girl had disappeared, and Amy wondered if she had vanished with one of the Rohirric soldiers. They were extremely good looking, and more than one of them were whistling at Sam earlier, but Amy didn't feel like entertaining men. Actually, she felt like entertaining an elf, but that was out of the question. Speaking of elves, she didn't know where Legolas had went, and decided to go in search of him. She wove her way through the crowd, pausing to listen to the hard, complicated music of the gypsies and admire their dancing. They were strong and beautiful, dark hair loose around their shoulders, lips painted with red, their teeth flashing white in their dark faces. She discovered Legolas and Gimli at the beer table, surrounded by more than one soldier. Eomer was there, pouring drinks, and he grinned at her when she approached. Gimli and Legolas appeared to be embarking on a drinking contest, while Legolas was cocking an eyebrow dubiously. "No hidin' ale," Gimli was explaining gleefully, "no spittin' it out, an' no collapsin'. Last man standin' wins."

Legolas shared a glance with Amy and almost decided against the contest – there was an unspoken question in Amy's eyes, and he had been meaning to talk to her for quite some time now. But she seemed moderately amused by the contest, so Legolas accepted his first mug of ale. Eomer thumped the table with his hand. "Go!" he shouted, and Gimli began swigging ale as though it would be outlawed tomorrow. Legolas took his time, drinking the rather weak Rohirric ale, downing two glasses rather quickly. It was nothing like a thick Elven wine, spiced with nutmeg and warmer than cinnamon, but it was ale all the same. Still, he didn't feel any adverse effects until he was on his twenty third glass of ale. "I feel it," he said curiously, examining his fingers. "Like a...a buzzing, in my fingers." He looked up very seriously at Amy. "I believe it's affecting me."

Gimli laughed drunkenly, slamming his twentieth glass of ale down on the table. He made an indistinct noise of laughter in his throat, something like 'Ahrugha,' and said "Elves...Can't 'old their liquor...'S up to a dwarf to show you how it's done!"

"You're on your twentieth," Legolas reminded him, "And I'm three ahead of you. Incidentally, I'm not slopping ale down my beard and puddling it on the floor."

"Puddle, piddle," Gimli sang. "Ain't puddling my piddle, nope. Us dwarves – real drinkers, not like some elves I could mention," he slurred. "Drinkin' puddles...I mean piddles...I mean pales. Pails of ale, come on!" He thumped his mug on the table and fell over, giggling haphazardly on the floor. Legolas looked politely at Eomer.

"I believe that's the signal for the end of the game?" he said, and bowed a little to the unconscious dwarf. "Thank you, Master Dwarf, it was most entertaining." He shot off through the crowd after the elusive redhead who was making her way towards the balcony.

He caught up with her outside. She was leaning against the balcony railing, watching the city of Helm's Deep spread out before her like a scroll. The moonlight was shrouded behind a gauzy black cloud, so shadows leaped and grinned from behind every angle and edge. Her dress was beautiful – subtly beautiful, and you had to study it a minute before seeing the delicate embroidery and careful stitching. It was like Amy herself, he decided – on the outside, merely a pretty, anxious girl with tangled red hair and freckles spattering across her nose. But if you chipped away the layers of nervousness and shyness and her overall mothering personality, you found a girl – a girl struggling to become a woman, fighting her way through evil and good alike, trying to discern who was a foe and who was a friend. She had relied on Sam and Lizzie to keep her sane – now she had to rely on herself, because Lizzie was missing and Sam was becoming rapidly obsessed with slaughtering Uruks and a certain silver-haired elf. He approached Amy silently, and then leaned against the railing next to her. She looked at him, her brows drawing together in an anxious knot as she studied his fine, handsome Elven features. Those blue eyes were beautiful, shimmering with warmth and good humor, studying her carefully and gently. "Tired?" he questioned, tucking that single curl behind her ear which always got in her way. She shivered at the contact of his warm hand against her cool skin, his fingers trailing down behind her ear and sketching across her throat.

"A little," she said, readjusting her shawl. Strangely, she didn't feel like crying – she had been crying all morning, and now she was all cried out. She offered him as shaky laugh. "I guess we can't go back to being friends, now can we?"

"Do you want to?" Legolas asked, praying with every fiber of his being that she said no. He didn't even know why, but he wanted things to change between them – he wanted to tap into the frustrated energy that always crackled between them. She took a steadying breath and looked at him in the eyes.

"Legolas...It was a mistake, and you know it. We can't be, you know," she made an indistinct gesture with her hand. "Together. It's not right."

"Why?" he demanded. "Why not?" He felt anger simmering slowly at his core.

"Because you're an elf!" Amy said, voice rising slightly in spite of herself, her emotion bleeding into her words. "You're an elf, you're immortal, undying, and I'm a human. I'm a human, and I'll die in a few years. I might not even make a few years, I might make a few days at the rate we're going! Aragorn says this isn't over – he's right! Frodo still needs to destroy the Ring, and, and –" Despite her earlier resolution, she burst into tears. Within seconds, she felt herself being held by Legolas, her cheek pressing lightly against his chest, his arms holding her close to him. She heard the steady beat of his heart, and she closed her eyes, wishing furiously that they weren't different races, wishing that she hadn't even met him. Because if she didn't meet him, she wouldn't have this hurt in her chest, this raw animal tearing at her heart every time he looked at her, wouldn't feel herself dying inside every time she saw his blue eyes. Somehow, this made her cry all the harder, and she didn't know how long she stayed there, clinging to him, listening to his heartbeat. When the tears subsided, she sniffled and wiped her eyes. She gave a weak little chuckle. "I guess you better find yourself a girl who doesn't burst into tears at the drop of a hat," she said.

"I do not want another girl, Amy!" Legolas said, suddenly animated. "I do not want anybody else. I want _you_. Why can't you see that?"

"I do see it, Legolas, and that's what hurts!" Amy said, breaking herself away from him. "I shouldn't have kissed you, all right? I'm sorry, it was a mistake! Can we forget it and move on?"

"No, Amy," Legolas said gently. "I don't want to forget it. A mistake is something you regret, and I will never regret kissing you."

Amy opened her mouth, perhaps to make a well-reasoned argument or to tell him him to forget about her, or maybe just to scream in frustration, but before she knew what was happening his lips were on hers. She raised a hand, whether to slap him or pull away she would never know, because the next thing she knew her fingers were tangling through his hair and pulling him closer, just wishing he could kiss all her pain away. She wished she could kiss her memory clean, wished she could just kiss him forever and forget it was forbidden. She wished it could be right, that she would grow up and get married to him. Because, before this, Amy never entertained the thought of marriage. It had always been some vaguely distant, weirdly futuristic idea that would never really apply to her. But standing her, the moonlight lighting every silver highlight in his hair, kissing him like the world would end (which it might), marriage seemed very close and fast. She wanted to get married. She wanted _him_. Just him.

And for a moment, she got what she wished.

09

He was still standing there when Aragorn approached him, his hood drawn deeply over his face. The stars had no luster for him, and he seemed fascinated with the minute details in the city beneath him. Aragorn took his position next to his friend and gazed out at the city sprawled before them, hemmed in by jagged mountains as far as the eye could see. Above them, the stars twinkled dimly, their brilliance shielded by an unknown force and the general mood of the city. The rough peaks of the mountains clawed at the sky, giving the appearance of some demonic being leaping out from a pit. Aragorn studied his friend, noting the solemn blue eyes that were going slightly gray with the moonlight, and the firm line of his mouth. "Something troubles you, _mellon_," Aragorn said quietly. There was a long pause between them as tension stretched, elastic, and Legolas sighed. His hand went to his brow, fingers dancing along his forehead as he tried to ease the ache in his heart and his mind.

"The stars are veiled," Legolas answered, "in both my heart and my sight. I do not understand it, Aragorn. Why does the Valar allow us, the fools we are, to try and temper such an unpredictable emotion? None can explain it, but all succumb to its wills. I do not understand my own traitorous heart, _mellon_. There is a world to save and a war to fight, and yet I find myself lingering on her." He turned to his gray-eyes friend, and detected an amused curve to his mouth. "You know something?" he asked hopefully. Aragorn shook his head a little, eyes lowered, fingers instinctively going up to brush the Evenstar pendant around his neck.

"I am thinking you sound like me when I first saw Arwen," Aragorn said softly. "There are different types of love, Legolas. Arwen and I knew we were destined for each other, from the moment our eyes met. Our souls bonded the second she touched me, and I pledged myself to her when I kissed her. I will never be separated from her side, Legolas – there are some bonds that will never be broken. You still have not realized you and Amy are destined – you cannot see what is right in front of you. The stars hold legacies and destinies, Legolas – it is up to us to fulfill them."

Both of them felt it at the same time, their eyes flashing to one another as a crippling wave of evil shuddered through them. Legolas's eyes went wide. "He is here," he breathed.

The two of them turned and tore towards the closed doors.

Pippin shouted once, his eyes large and his hands frozen to the palantir he was holding. A fiery eye blazed, the core of it blacker than the most sinister darkness, the raging outer flames humming with electricity as they pierced Pippin's simple Hobbit soul. A withered white tree, the bleached branches gazing morosely towards the gray skies, stood in a courtyard of stone, the ground littered with the dried, dead shells of former blossoms. A tomb, clad in pure marble, sat under the tree, a ghoulish bearer of death yet innocent of its precious cargo. A voice, deep beyond measure and raspy with age, echoed through Pippin's mind, twisting sinuously around his thoughts and invading his own heart. He felt the palantir being ripped from his hands, and his palms burned as though held in flames, but the connection was not yet broken, and he heard more voices, joining the first like a murder of crows, all cawing harshly and beating their wings, bearers of disease and sickness, their hideous screeches overlapping in his mind into a solid voice which he could not understand. He fell to the floor, back arching in a spasm, cold sweat beading his brow as disjointed images scorched his mind.

Aragorn dropped the palantir from his hands, crying out to the arched ceilings, palms branded with sharp red welts from his unwitting contact with the glass ball. His first thought had been to save Pippin, and now he could only think of the pain in his mind and his hands. The ball rolled across the floors, fiery eye welding itself into the minds of everyone awake, and came to a stop at Amy's feel. The redhead, her eyes pink from crying, looked at his with a detached curiosity, and knelt to pick it up. Legolas shouted to warn her, awakening at least half the hall in the process, but her green eyes flashed orange, and her hands clenched around the ball.

Because in the palantir, clear as day, she saw Lizzie, her friend's eyes burning with malicious pleasure.


	4. Mister Cranky Warden and BATTLE LIZZIE!

She ran.

She ran blindly, tearing past people, things, places, buildings. It was the most primal of all emotions, to just run away from terror and anguish and fear. Her legs moved automatically, but her eyes were blurred and she was blind, running without sight or hearing or any sense at all, except a searing, welting pain of seeing her friend in that damned palantir. _It's a trick, it's a trick,_ she screamed to herself, not sure whether she was saying it out loud or in her head. She didn't feel her barked knees stinging as she took a corner too sharply and skinned her legs harshly – the physical pain was so fleeting, momentary; a breath of wind fluttering a dewy field, and then it was gone. But her emotional pain, oh, that tattooed itself in her mind and soul and heart, tearing at her savagely, a beast alive and roaring in her chest as it wreaked havoc on her thoughts. How could she? She didn't know how Lizzie was living with herself. How could she do such a thing? Betray them? They had been friends since childhood – identical loose teeth, the same sticky fingers from lemonade stands, soaked hair from countless water fights. They all fell in love every week with a different boy, and they gossiped over the phone endlessly about them. They had been friends – _best_ friends. Inseparable. Unshakeable. Insurmountable. _How_ could she? How _could _she? How could _she_?

Finally, after years and years of running, after decades of sobbing, she collapsed right where she was. She didn't want to move another step. She _wouldn't_ move another step. Her red hair was being pulled sharply and unnaturally aside, yanked from the loose pin which was snagging a clump of red hair. In a fit of rage, she tore the pin loose and flung it away from her. She didn't want to be herself – she didn't want to be this miserable, sobbing, wreck of a girl. All her life, she had put on a smile and cared for people, helping Sam and Lizzie even when she felt like lying down and sleeping for a million years. She had worried for them, been the sensible one, taken the blame on countless occasions to keep them out of trouble. And what had happened? Dragged into another world, fallen in love with an unreachable man, lost her best friend, and the other friend blessed by the gods. What happened to her? Nothing. Betrayed. Stabbed. Torn apart. She didn't want to die, but she didn't want to live either. She wanted to sleep and never wake up. There couldn't be anything more horrible than waking up the next day and being Amy, Amy, Amy all her life. What had she done wrong? What terrible crime had she committed to be punished in this fashion – both friends changed, one brutal and bloodthirsty, the other cruel and contemptible? Why was she the only one unchanged by this war, this accursed dream? Was it possible that she could wake up and find that everything was merely a drug-induced dream? An elaborate coma?

The blood from her scraped knees blotted her palms and left intricate webs of crimson against her soft hands. The pain was distant, and somehow it was tethering her to reality like an anchor far below a ship. The gauzy layers fell away from her eyes and she took a hiccupping, shuddering breath. She had no idea where she was, no idea how far she had run, no idea what she had screamed to the grieving city of Helm's Deep as she darted away from her problems. This was worse than having Lizzie die – she believed that. The idea that her best friend had turned from her, turned _on _her, was awful. They were on opposite sides – _really_ on opposite sides, not just on opposite sides of a kickball team. Lizzie was trying to kill her. And what had Sam said? "We're going to fight Lizzie...And I might have to kill her." Kill her! Had Sam been lying? But there had been truth in Sam's face, Amy remembered that. Lizzie had turned evil. Suddenly, Amy hated everything to do with this world, this stupid war. She hated it! She wished none of them had ever come to this place – she wished none of them had ever gone to the Ground Round. She wished she hadn't been depressed about her birthday. It all went back to that, didn't it? If she hadn't been born, none of this would have happened!

The presence behind her was not immediately known to Amy. It stole up on her, unawares, like a veil of mist creeping over mossy ground. It was not a threatening presence, but not exactly a joyful presence. It was ... sad. And cold. Like a tear frozen on the face of a woman. Amy felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle, and she tried unsuccessfully to calm her steadying breath. When she smudged the tears away from her eyes, she turned, swallowing hard, trying not to look as though she had just been crying.

He just stood there, those queer slate-colored eyes examining her, his dark hair grazing his jaw as he scrutinized her closely. Those eyes were so odd – always so restless, never standing still, leaping from place to place like a fox. When he moved, it was sudden and quick, his lean body stepping and adjusting his weight to make little or no noise; he was almost frightening in his eerie quietness. But when he stood still, like he was now, he stood as still as the mountains themselves, not moving a muscle, hardly even breathing, a powerful wolf tasting the air. She sniffled and tried to calm her unsteady breathing, not wanting to be seen bawling her eyes out in front of Aragorn. He had always scared her a little – his eyes seemed to look _through _instead of at you, as though he were peeling her apart, layer by layer, and finding something he didn't like much. Perhaps it was the moonlight, but tonight his eyes seemed soft and deep, the color of melted lead instead of iron frost. "Lady Amy," he said softly, "Your friends are worried."

"I c-c-can't d-do it!" Amy said, a little hysterically, her breath jumping erratically. "I c-can't keep d-doing this!"

"Amy, you have shown strength far beyond your years," Aragorn said, still not moving a muscle. She didn't appear to be taking in any of his words, but his quick eyes noticed her shoulders slumping a little in defeat. "You have been through battles many would break under, and you have risen only stronger because of them. Lady Elizabeth's choice was her own, not yours. _This is not your fault_."

"W-why?" Amy demanded, fingers snapping to fists and carving deep crescent moons in her palms. "W-why would s-she do something l-l-like this? W-we're f-f-friends. Best f-friends."

"People change," Aragorn said simply. "You saw this in her all the time, and yet you deny it even now. There is an old Elvish proverb: 'The only thing that can be fully counted on is that things will always change'." He moved, one fast, sudden movement, and Amy felt herself being held in his arms. It wasn't romantic in the slightest, but the gesture was quick and alien to her for a brief moment. She hadn't so much as exchanged a word with Aragorn until now, but now he was holding her together, like a china doll about to break into pieces. She fisted a handful of his tunic and began sobbing in earnest, muffling her stricken cries in his chest for a while. "There, now, let them come," he reassured her, stroking her hair. "Tears hurt at first, but with time, they heal."

"S-she was my f-f-friend." Amy sniffled, unable to get past that one simple fact, that one concrete shred of evidence that still lingered in her heart.

"She may have been once," Aragorn said gently, "But I do not think she still is. The One Ring of Power is an elusive thing that can sway the hearts of even the strongest man." He broke off suddenly, jaw locking subtly. "I ought to know. My lineage has a remarkable talent for bending to the ill will of dark magics."

They stood there for a long while, Amy trying to stop her hyperventilating, Aragorn attempting to soothe the distraught girl. Amy broke away from him with a shaky laugh and scrubbed at her eyes, shivering at the sudden coolness of the chill breeze. Aragorn's gray eyes flickered, and he stroked the crown of her head as one might pet a cat. It was oddly soothing, and he ruffled her hair good naturedly. "Are you ready to return to your friend?" he asked her. "I suggest you find a washcloth and basin before you present yourself before your elven suitor, however."

In spite of herself, Amy laughed tremblingly. "He's not my suitor," she protested mildly, her quivering laugh still tickling her throat. She allowed Aragorn to lead her over to a well that stood in the middle of the street, and listened to the steady creak of the bucket being hauled upwards. Aragorn settled the aged, cracked bucket on the rim of the well and allowed Amy to splash water on her face and hands. A little smile was twitching the side of his mouth as he watched her.

"Oh?" He said, feigning curiosity. "Then those lingering glances you share are nothing more than looks from a friend? And those smoldering looks are not fraught with passion, but with the humor of a companion?"

Amy swatted him with her damp hand. "Shut up," she said, blushing furiously. "Smoldering looks, my hind end." She couldn't believe she was talking with the future king of Gondor in such a fashion, and it was still hard to conceive that he had cheered her up.

"Come, little one, Samantha will worry." Aragorn said, and led her back up to the keep. She looked marginally better – her face was still swollen and puffy from crying so hard, but her warm green eyes had a little spark left in them and she wasn't nearly as cold and empty as they had been before. He petted her head once more, and the two of them slowly made their way back to the keep, trying as hard as they could to leave the shells of their scarred memories behind them.

09

Lizzie pulled on a pair of mail gloves with satisfaction, tucking them into the ridged metal plates that covered her wrists. A flat silver strip extended from her wrist and covered her the back of her hand and her knuckles, and she examined her reflection with a little smirk. Her hair, usually down around her shoulders in glossy golden ringlets, was pulled behind her in an intricate plait that descended to her back. Her blue eyes were twinkling viciously, and they narrowed unpleasantly as she knelt to pull on her armored boots. The armor was incredibly heavy – it felt as though she were wearing a Hummer, tires included. But if they kept her safe, then she didn't care in the slightest. Her breastplate had on design on it, but the black color was polished to a high sheen. Several sheets of metal overlapped down her arms, giving her a spiny, prickly look that made her appear like the forked end of a dragon's tail. At her hips, two delicate swords were sheathed in beautiful scabbards, and she tried unsheathing them with a flourish, practicing. It felt good, and she held the blades crossed in front of her face for a moment, liking the image she had in her mind. A dangerous, beautiful queen about to go to war. She would teach those rebellious scoundrels a lesson they wouldn't forget in a hurry. But she would be merciful, she decided. They would bow and pledge their allegiance to her, or suffer like the swine they were. If they promised to obey her every command, then they would live. Those that pleased her would live like kings, she told herself. But those that defied her would wish they had never been born before she was through with them.

She clanked her way over to the doorway, sparing a last, lingering glance at her room. It had been plain enough – scrubbed black walls, a flat cot stuffed with straw, a scratchy blanket piled in a heap on the floor. A chest dominated the room – her dresses were stored in there. When she returned, victorious and triumphant, she would get some decorators in here and have them update the place. Some furs on the floor, some of those nice tapestries they had in Rivendell. Thick embroidered pillows everywhere. And of course, a new room with plenty of windows. Perhaps a balcony or two, so she could lounge outside and gaze out over her prosperous land. Oh, it wasn't prosperous _now_ – but she was confident she could change that. The Elves and Men would love her, and she would eradicate those stupid, smelly Orcs and Uruks. Maybe one or two kept to scare villagers and children, but nothing more than that. She slammed the door behind her and hurried down the curving stone steps, passing the guttering torches in sconces in the walls. Deeper and deeper she traveled, until she felt the tiny trembling in her gut that signaled the nearing of the horde of Uruks. The first column had left hours ago – it would take almost a full day for the entire army to assemble and then form into a comprehensive formation, but she would whip them into shape.

The huge doors opened into a flat stone courtyard that overlooked the entire Orc-camp. It was almost completely empty, save for the ugly Orc babes. In front of her, seven armored men stood, easily eight or nine feet tall, hands resting on the hilt of their swords. Behind them, eight black dragons reared and shrieked, their hideous maws snapping wolfishly at the smoggy black skies, chains tethering them to the ground by the merest thread of mortality. Lizzie felt small and insignificant, and she quavered inside her armor. She summed up every shred of her acting skills and pulled on her helmet, which was an exact copy of the Ringwraith's own. Now she was as blank and faceless as any of them, and there would be so much confusion nobody would notice an extra Nazgul in the sky. One of them, the tallest Nazgul there, seemed to be eyeing her with something like ghoulish disdain.

_Are you armored, Highness?_ The Witch-King rasped inside her head, the voice slithering and crawling amongst her most intimate thoughts, a snake sliding along the dry, rustling leaves of her memory. She nodded once, forcing herself to be calm, to stifle the butterflies in her stomach. These...ghosts...would be under her command, soon. There was a throaty chuckle in her mind, a sick, wheezing snap. _We bow to no man, Highness. Our allegiance is to the Lord Sauron alone. _

"Enough!" Lizzie snapped loudly, startling herself. "We're wasting time! Do I have to do everything around here?" She marched over to one of the black dragons, parted away from the others, and slightly smaller. It hissed menacingly at her and battered the pavement with its wings, back feet stamping as it leapt into the air and was yanked down again by its chain. "Easy, girl," Lizzie muttered uncertainly. Were these – things – even female? She had no idea. "Easy, shh, c'mon." It didn't seem very content with her murmurings, and screeching a bloodcurdling cry at the heavens, causing Lizzie to clap her mailed hands to her armored head. "Ouch! Damn it, you stupid lizard!" She shouted, and this seemed to get it's attention. She threw herself at the dragon and scrambled on top of it, stepping unmercifully on its wing and causing it to squeal in pain.

She had barely managed to climb on when one of the Ringwraiths pointed at the chains, and they simply fell apart. Sensing the lack of tension, Lizzie's dragon took off powerfully into the sky, climbing twenty feet into the air with a single stroke of its strong wings. Lizzie actually screamed, clinging on for dear life as the dragon swooped low, ducking down over the Orc-camp, calling deathly screeches into the night sky. It barrel-rolled, and Lizzie felt the contents of her stomach working their way into her mouth as colors melted together in a dizzying swirl. She would have opened her mouth to scream again, but the breath was gone from her lungs and her head was spinning. If her hands weren't gripping the cold, leathery bridle with such unmitigated force, she might have fainted and fallen off the dragon altogether. Her blood pounded in her temples as the dragon righted itself and began flying along with the other seven dragons. She felt nauseous and ill as the steady beating began drumming an ache into her thighs.

The future Queen of the World wasn't off to the best start.

09

Sam lounged on Haldir's bed, feet stretched out in front of her. Her long, willowy figure was half-hidden under a cloak, but there was enough skirt ridden up her leg to make Haldir having difficulty looking at her face. Sam had taken to visiting him almost every day, bringing him food, gossip, and her usual snide comments that usually enticed a round of laughter from other wounded elves. They apparently liked seeing their Warden, thus incapacitated and vulnerable, becoming red-faced and swear like a sailor at the will of a smug little elleth. She plucked a grape from the dish sitting in the small valley between them – not small enough for Haldir – and popped it deftly into her mouth. "So, what's up, Joe Schmoe?" She asked idly, pressing the small fruit against her top teeth. The delicate skin broke and sweet juices filled her mouth and she made a vague noise of satisfaction in her chest. Haldir propped himself up on one elbow, his elegant silver hair spilling over his throat and bared chest. His torso was mostly covered with swaths of bandages, but from what Sam could see, he was heavily muscled.

"I do not know why you insist on calling me 'Schmoe'," Haldir said. "It's an inelegant, uncouth sounding word which you have never explained properly."

"Oh, yeah, and we wouldn't want the mighty Haldir to look uncouth or inelegant," Sam snorted. "Face it, I can call you anything I want and you won't be able to do anything but swear at me. And I'm used to that. And speaking of explaining words, you never explained what 'Auta miqula orqu' means."

"Go kiss an Orc," Haldir said promptly.

Sam arched an eyebrow in a magnificent display of confusion and ridicule.

"Pardon?"

"It means 'Go kiss an Orc'," Haldir said, muffling a laugh but couldn't help the smile that broke onto his strong, handsome features. "And as soon as I recover the injury _you_ gave me, I will punish you quickly and thoroughly for every insult I have not been able to return that passed from your lips."

"Wait, the injury _I _gave you?" Sam said. "I thought we covered this – it's _your_ fault."

If Haldir was feeling petty and American, his response might have been "Nuh-uh!", but seeing as he was a dignified Marchwarden, he couldn't exactly respond in this banal, but nevertheless enjoyable, fashion.

"Ridiculous," he said coolly. "I was saving your life. If you cannot see it my way it appears as though we have reached an impass."

"We reach impasses every day," Sam said, rolling her eyes. "And you weren't saving mine, I was saving yours."

"Ellith," Haldir tutted. "They continue to insist they are always right."

Sam smirked beautifully. "That's because we are, dummy."

"Your insults are self-depreciating and only lower my viewpoint of you," Haldir told her condescendingly. "Humans have the most preposterous insults."

"Oh, you haven't _heard_ my insults," Sam said smugly. "But I won't repeat my best ones, mostly because I don't want to bruise your tender Elvish ears."

Haldir nearly had a fit.

"Tender Elvish – tender Elvish ears? By Morgoth, you make very free! I do not have tender ears!"

"They're _pointy_," Sam pointed out.

"So are yours," Haldir said pettishly.

"Only because I actually worked for them," Sam said, sticking her tongue out.

"They were a _gift_," Haldir snapped, becoming mildly annoyed. "A gift which you do not appreciate as of yet."

"So I get pointy ears and I live forever, big whoop," Sam said, yawning and snuggling back against the wall. "And it sounds like Mister Stuffy Warden needs his nap. Are we getting cranky? Huh? Yeah, my little Warden's getting cranky." Sam said in a babyish voice. Haldir spluttered, almost incoherent.

"Stop that infantile tone of voice!" He insisted. "I am not a child!"

"You act like one," Sam reminded him. "The day you start acting like a grown-up, you'll be treated like one."

"Eru, woman, if I were well I would put you over my knee and give you the taste of a stick!"

Sam wiggled her fingers. "Ooh, scary," she smirked.

Their banter would have gone on for a good many hours if Legolas had not burst into the infirmary, his blue eyes wild. "Gondor has lit the beacons!" he cried, voice ringing throughout the suddenly still hall. "And Rohan rides in answer!"

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><p><strong>AN: I decided to start putting my Author's Notes down here. Georgia was beautiful, but my mother-in-law was terrible. Don't ask. :) Anyway, I decided that all reviewers will now get a fresh baked cookie and public appreciation! So review, and be recognized!**

**P.S. Whatcha think of Battle-Lizzie, huh? Epic fight scene is coming up! SAM X LIZZIE!**


	5. More Annoying Flashbacks

She stroked Glandur's mane, weaving her small fingers amid the tangles of coarse hair, scratching the furred, wide, powerful neck beneath. The whole city of Helm's Deep was in an uproar - men were running to and fro, fetching weapons, maps, blankets, and a hundred and one other things that they would need for the upcoming war. Sam was astride Alandur, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, those large brown eyes narrowed triumphantly, her pointed ears nestled against the thick waves of her hair. Eowyn was buckling blankets on her own horse, and every so often she would glance at Sam as if trying to communicate with her, but to no avail. Sam was lost in her own little world, readying herself for the upcoming battle. Amy had tried to tell her that there was zero chance of any of them sneaking into the fight without Théoden's, Aragorn's, or Legolas's knowledge. After Sam's stint during Helm's Deep, Aragorn was taking no chances with the bloodthirsty Elven warrior. Sam was dressed in travel clothes, as was Amy, but Amy suspected there was armor hidden in the wide packs on Alandur's broad back. Amy waited, coughing on the dust stirred up by the horse's hooves, until she caught a glimpse of a golden-haired elf making his way through the crowd. She quivered a little, blushing in spite of herself as she thought of Aragorn's remark: "You should look nice for your Elven suitor." Was it that obvious? She had only recently discovered her bundle of conflicting emotions concerning Legolas, but was she the only person in the dark? Had the entire Fellowship read her like a book and known she was slowly falling for him?

Legolas drew level with her, and he saw her standing next to Glandur, a determined expression on her face. Once he saw she was wearing traveling clothes, he began shaking his head. "No, no, no!" He said, glaring at her. "You are not accompanying us to the encampment."

Amy's temper was a small, relatively unknown thing to her. She was known for a very long fuse - it took a lot for her to get angry. However, Middle Earth had been wearing away at her - the battles, the bloodshed, the lives lost, it was all taking its toll. Everything had been going to wrong in her life for so long, she felt herself snapping mentally. She took a deep, shuddering breath, locking her jaw, and then her eyes flared once. "Legolas, you are in _no_ position to tell me what to do! If I want to go to the encampment, I'll damn well go to the encampment!" She snapped.

"Why will you not stay here, where it is safe?" Legolas demanded. There was a look on Amy's face akin to fury - her brow was tightly drawn, her red curls framing her face, bangs fringing her eyes, her mouth a firm line slashed between her freckled cheeks.

"Because there's not guarantee any of you will come back!" Amy cried. "You can't promise me you'll come back, Legolas, because I know you won't! It was a miracle that you came back _this_ time, and you probably won't come back from Gondor, or wherever the hell you're going! Why don't _you_ stay where it's safe, huh? Why do I have to keep following you around and make sure your sorry butt hasn't been sliced and diced by some dumb Orc?"

Legolas looked at her and shook his head slightly. "This is my duty, Amy," He said quietly, hardly audible over the roar of people around him. "I embarked on this quest, and made it my sworn decision to help save Middle Earth. You did not take that vow. You need to stay where it's safe, Amy. I won't risk losing you."

"I don't care," Amy said ruthlessly. Her hands snapped to fists at her sides, and she pointed a finger in Legolas's face. "I'm going with you, and that's _final_!"

* * *

><p>As they rode towards the encampment, Sam allowed a slow sense of calm to flow over her, like a pull of warm water. For some reason, the idea of going into battle didn't startle her - she felt like a hunter, about to pounce on unsuspecting prey. Those Uruk-hai wouldn't know what hit them when Samantha Browning stepped onto the battle field! Sam didn't question these alien thoughts - they seemed natural, as though she were meant for being a predator. There was certainly something very cunning and savage about the quick grin that stole over her mouth for an instant. The weight of her sword on her hip seemed suddenly lighter, and her hand left the reins for an instant to capture the warm hilt in her palm. Battles didn't frighten her - confrontation was her best policy. But there was one thing that was striking shards of ice into her heart whenever she thought about it. Her smile dropped from her face and she tried to hide the shiver that tickled apprehensively up her spine.<p>

Lizzie.

Would she be able to do it? She hadn't seen herself killing Lizzie in Galadriel's Mirror, but how else could that scene end? Would she actually be able to cut the throat of her best friend? Well, sort of best friend. She could count on one hand the amount of times Lizzie had referred to her as "Best Friend". Amy had been the one who really held the group together - the 'glue' if you will - by her peacemaking, her motherly attitude, her domestic nature. One of these days, Sam mused, Amy would make an excellent housewife. But despite their earlier quarrels, when it came down to the wire Sam would take a bullet for Lizzie, and it used to be the same way for Lizzie as well. Middle Earth had changed everything - including Lizzie's nature. Or had she always been like that? Sam remembered a few other incidents where Lizzie was outright malicious, but nothing like launching a full-scale war against the entire world. Sure, she was a bit too obsessed with Justin Beiber, shaving her legs, and Olay moisturizer, but Lizzie wasn't evil, essentially. Well, okay, not _totally_ evil.

But none of that mattered - there wouldn't be any time for Sam to change Lizzie's mind in the middle of a battle. She couldn't just stand by and let Lizzie rule the world, slaughtering everything in sight. But was Lizzie really evil? Yes, she decided. There was no faking that look of complete evilness in those cold blue eyes. Nevertheless, Sam couldn't quell the queasy feeling in her stomach at the thought of killing Lizzie. She couldn't do it. She had to do it. She swallowed hard and tried to suppress the icy daggers clawing at her heart.

"_She started it!"_

_Sam, nine years old, hair shaggy and unkempt, fists like rocks at the end of her arms. _

_Lizzie, crying on the steps, nursing a black eye. _

_Amy, crying herself, trying to get them to stop fighting. _

"_She hit me!" _

"_Shh! My mom will hear!" Amy is panicked, her green eyes brimming with tears._

_Lizzie glares with her one good eye at Sam. "I will get _even_ with you, Samantha Browning, if it's the last thing I do!" _

Sam jerked away, unaware that she had been asleep. Alandur had politely jolted her, causing her to click her teeth together and bite down hard on her tongue. Sam swore a few times, and then petted the spirited horse's neck. Alandur felt hard and smooth beneath her fingers, raw muscle barely contained by silky fur. She sighed. Dreaming about childhood memories wouldn't solve anything - she still had to make up her mind whether or not to hurt Lizzie. And no matter how she thought of it, she couldn't do it. She could imagine fighting Lizzie - heaven knows she's done that before - but her imagination kept shutting off whenever her blade leveled at Lizzie's neck. She couldn't bring herself to complete the swing, to decapitate her friend. Because Lizzie always looked at her with those shining blue eyes, rimmed with blonde lashes, and pleaded for Sam not to hurt her. Begged Sam to protect her. And how could anyone resist such large blue eyes, so pleading and heartfelt?

_Lizzie, makeup already artfully painted on her twelve year old face, leans forward, grinning. "Like this!" she coos, raising her hand. She flutters her eyes dreamily and kisses the back of her hand softly, lightly, tilting her head to one side._

_Amy, awkwardly copying, blushing furiously and glancing towards the door as if her mother might come in. "I feel dumb," Amy admits._

"_This is stupid," Sam snaps. Lizzie glares at Sam._

"_Just because _you've_ never kissed a boy, doesn't mean you won't." She says. _

"_Come on! Have you kissed a guy?" Sam demands. _

_A perfect hair flip, a shake of her long blonde mane as Lizzie smirks at them. _

"_As a matter of fact, I have."_

_An outburst of incredulity. _

"_No, really! Mark Jacobs, from homeroom."_

"_Ew!" Amy says "Why would you want to kiss _Mark_?" _

"_Well, he kissed me first." _

"_You're lying," Sam says, flopping down on the bed. _

"_Am not!" Lizzie pouts. "Ask Mark!"_

_Amy goes back to kissing her hand with renewed vigor._

* * *

><p>The camp stretches before them, tucked away in the middle of a valley. Dark mountains surround the valley, ragged peaks clawing at the skies, tearing triangles out of the smooth golden sunset. Over the jingle of spurs and saddles, the cry of a lone wolf goes unheard by the exhausted troops. Amy is asleep, head against her chest, hands slack against her reins. Sam jerked her head, gamely trying to stay awake, and yawns. The crush is almost unbearable, and she finds herself shoulder-to-shoulder to Eowyn. Merry is fast asleep against her, small figure barely recognizable amid the thick cloak wrapped around him to stave off the chill. Eowyn, however, looks wide awake. "Samantha?" Eowyn hissed, struggling to be heard over the weary murmur of tired soldiers. "Samantha, are you awake?"<p>

Sam shakes her head briskly. "Yeah," Sam said. "What's up?"

Eowyn battles internally, and then meets Sam's eyes. "I'm going into the battle tomorrow, with Merry." She bit her lower lip, and then swallowed hard. "Will you go with us?"

Sam feels no canine feeling steal over her this time - no predatory growl in her chest. Instead, there is a dull kind of acceptance, a sort of acquiescence that she will have to go into battle and face her friend. "Yeah," Sam said. "Yeah, I was planning on going anyway.

She knew this much was true.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So, so, so sorry for such a short chapter! But you see a little more about their childhood, anyway. My muse is so dead, it's not even funny. To try and resurrect it, I went online and found character pictures! They're on my profile, and they're really, really good. :) **

* * *

><p><strong>~Special Thanks~<strong>

**Charlie167: **I didn't like her the moment I started writing about the little wench. Yes, Lizzie, I say WENCH! MWHAAH! (eep, I sound just like her! O.o)

**Eoril: **I'm guessing that's a song…If it is, I'm going to go listen to it straight away! I'm glad you liked it!

**Firestorm Nauralagos: **Your name is very hard to spell…Gah. Anyway, I adore Sam! She's my favorite character! :D

**Patriot16: **I can always count on you for excellent advice, so I'm glad you liked this chapter! Haldir and Sam will be amazing together…Okay, SPOLIER ALERT! I am planning on doing a fourth book…Something like "Ill Behaved Women Seldom Make Good Wives". It'll be all about Sam and Haldir. Sam goes to Lothlorien to find Haldir, and she finds she's only one in a swam of eager ellith. So she joins his army, disguised as an ellon, to try and get his attention. Howzat? It's only a thought…

**Lucy and Caspian forever young: **(Can't breathe) That was hysterical! That's exactly what she needs…I swear, she wipes with that before we meet her, because she is such a pain in the … ahem. Moving on.

**EstelPax: **Eventually, yes. :D

**Erugalatha Fael-ionath**_**:**_ I'm getting the hang of spelling your name! Huzzah! Yes, Lizzie is pretty dumb. She's a blonde, remember? Kidding, look at Reese Witherspoon! Amazing actress, and certainly not dumb. Check out the picture for Lizzie that I put in my Author's Notes, because that is EXACTLY how I picture her. :D Oh, and hold off on the idea of Amy being blessed. You might want to keep it for later. :D

**Define X: **I'm so glad you liked it! Originally, I was going to have Nienna comfort Amy, but then that seemed waaaaay too Mary Sue-ish. The Valar are everywhere in this story, it seems. I'm glad you like my descriptions. I'm afraid there aren't many in this chapter, but oh well…

**Calvairi: **Awww…You all seem to know how to make me blush…I do not write for a living, lol. I'm a mother of three…I barely have enough time to think, let alone write for a living! But that was very sweet, thank you!

**Ccngme: **Welcome aboard, explorer! I'm glad you like it, and I'm glad new people are actually taking the time and reading the whole series. I didn't plan on it being quite so large, but you know how that goes. And Amy will do something big….eventually. When she gets the courage. :D

**Butterflyninja935: **I enjoyed every one of your reviews! Thank you SO MUCH, and please keep reading!

**Inkwolf1: **Wow, it appears we have quite a few new readers! I'm so shocked at how many people like this story…It's becoming quite popular!

**ImaginationOfLove: **Amy and Legolas are AMAZINGLY cute together. I love writing scenes between them. I can't wait until the end…Oops. I'll give something away. :D


	6. Beating People Up Is Not Amy's Style

The stars jeweled the skies above the huge encampment, the blazing white pinpricks of light mirroring the dull orange glow of the campfires which dotted the valley. Behind them, a sheer cliff dropped away to meet a winding river, and hawks wheeled overhead, perching in the scraggly black tree which sliced the orange moon to ribbons. Around one particular campfire, several men in Eomer's eored were seated, trying to quell the rising nerves thrumming in their systems. The fire snapped and spat angry sparks into the air, the long yellow threads of flame curling and uncurling like the claws of some small, wild animal. Sam sat off to the side, scraping her blade over a whetstone, carefully running the blade over the jagged rock, just like Aragorn had shown her so long ago. Her eyes, usually fiery with passion or laughter, were dead, empty coals of smoldering emotion, and her body was tense as a coiled spring. Her messy brown hair hung in curtains around her cheeks, hiding her face from view, and the only motion she made was the single, continuous rasp of the blade going across the whetstone. One of the soldiers broke from his trance and glanced over at her, noting her calm, set expression, and the loose wrist in which she sharpened her blade. "You'll sharpen that blade to nothing if you keep whetting it," He told her. Without a pause, she dropped the whetstone and held the blade in front of her, edge side up. Her hand reached around to her hairline and snapped off a hair, then dropped it over the keen edge of the blade. It was sliced cleanly in two, and she grunted a little in satisfaction.

"There's no such thing as a blade that's too sharp," She told the soldier, and then sheathed her blade carefully, belting it once more around her waist. The soldier noticed her practiced ease, and he raised an eyebrow.

"Why are you sharpening your blade, maiden? Surely you do not expect battle tomorrow." He asked curiously. Sam snorted.

"Oh, so we're going on a picnic? I had no idea," She snarled. "Just because I'm not going to battle tomorrow, doesn't mean someone I know isn't. And besides, it's none of your business." She pushed back her tangled mop of hair, and he caught a glimpse of her face.

"Aren't you the woman who rushed into the battle of Helm's Deep?" The soldier asked. Sam's dark brown eyes flared with pride.

"Yes," She said proudly. "Yes, I am."

"And you are not kept under lock and key for this?" The soldier asked incredulously. "Were you my wife or sister, I would have you bound hand and foot back in Edoras to keep you from following us."

"Yeah, well, I'm not your wife," Sam said, getting to her feet. "Thank God for that. And besides, tying me up wouldn't do any good." She leaned closer to him, raising her eyebrows as she smirked. "Who knows? I might enjoy it."

She swaggered away, the weight of her sword dragging her belt down her hips, giving her a sassy, sarcastic gait even from behind. The soldier blinked, completely bewildered, and then shook his head. He had heard about the woman who charged recklessly into battle during the war-stricken hell of Helm's Deep, but he didn't know she was mentally unbalanced.

Sam, blissfully unaware that currently her sanity was being brought into question, made her way through the camp. A haze of smoke, both from pipes and from fires, shrouded the encampment, mirroring the dark clouds which swirled over the pumpkin moon. The sharp, ghoulish details of the mountains surrounding them came into glittering focus with her newly enhanced vision – she could see a chasm, no larger than a small bike path, cracking through the side of a mountain. It looked like an empty, forgotten space, a place where souls go to die and people come back changed for life from. Cobwebs strung across the entrance, thick strands beaded with liquid, each drop of moisture containing an inverted world. Blue mist hovered around the fissure, swathing the grinning gap in a mysterious curtain. She arched an eyebrow, completely, foolishly unafraid of the canyon in front of her. She didn't know what the gap would entail, didn't know what dangerous mission her friends would set out on, didn't realize that one of her friends would lose another piece of her sanity when they left. Sam combed her fingers through her unkempt hair and rested her hand on her sword hilt, her eyes dark brown orbs, the golden facets dimmed and unreflecting. She heard the quick step of someone behind her, and she spun around, ready to do battle.

It was Amy, her hair unruly and mussed, her green eyes blank and unfocused. The two friends stood for a moment, and Sam saw that Amy was utterly unsurprised to see her dressed for battle. She must be numb by now, Sam decided, numb to anything life had to throw at her. Amy looked at her and shrugged a little. "You getting ready to go tomorrow?" She asked quietly, her voice level and determined. Sam dropped her gaze.

"Yeah," she said. "Yeah, I'm going with Eowyn and Merry tomorrow."

Amy swallowed. "Why."

It wasn't a question.

It bordered on a challenge.

There had been no time to discuss things during Helm's Deep, and Amy had been emotionally and physically unstable during it. But now, face-to-face with her friend, she would put up hell if it meant keeping her here. Sam rumpled her hair, struggling to explain. "I told you," she said, her voice even, "I feel at home when I'm in a battle. Like I belong there."

"You feel at home killing people?" Amy asked, and Sam noted that there were no tears in her eyes. Just cold, harsh fury. "You feel at home risking your life?"

"I feel at home protecting people!" Sam growled. "I feel at home hunting things down, defending people I love! It's what I was meant to do. We all have destinies, Amy, it's up to us to fulfill them. Well, this is _my_ destiny! I belong in a battle, Amy. I've always been combative – you know that!"

"You haven't always been suicidal," Amy answered sharply. "What's wrong with you, Sam? What changed?"

"I told you once," Sam said, her voice rough and hard, "that life changes. It's up to us to change with it! Why are you so resistant to change? We're in a different world – you have to accept that and move on!"

"Maybe I want things to do back to the way they were!" Amy said loudly, "maybe I actually have things that I miss in the real world! Your dad might be dead, but mine isn't! Your mom might be a drunken slut, but mine isn't!"

Both girls knew she had crossed a line the instant she said it. Sam's face went white, the scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose suddenly coming into focus. "Take it back." She said, her voice low and taut as her knuckles went white. "Take it back, right now."

"Stay here, and I'll take it back," Amy snapped. "Stay here where it's safe."

"No."

There was an awful, tight, tinny silence, where the whisper of the wind became a deafening roar; a silence so loud and painful that Sam could feel it pressing against her ears. Her skin felt too tight, too hot – the world was closing in on her, pressing in from all sides. She felt as though she might explode. Amy's voice was as wintery as a frosted steel snare when she spoke.

"I'm going with you."

"No, you're not," Sam said, trying to fight the overwhelming waves of heat and pressure building around them.

"What? I'm not good enough for you?" Amy said, her voice rising. "I'm not tough enough, huh? I'm tougher than you are! I'm stronger, too! I can fight!"

"No, you can't," Sam said, her voice now soft and almost condescending. "Amy, you're sweet, and small, and...just not a fighter."

Thinking back, Sam didn't remember how they ended up on the ground, brawling, but she surmised that Amy must have struck her. It wasn't an earth-shattering, life-changing moment, mostly because Sam's first instinct was to fight back. She hadn't always been this way, she remembered thinking, as Amy's fist connected with her cheekbone. Amy had once been sweet, docile, modest, shy. Now they were both sharp and flinty, ready to do battle at the slightest inclination. Neither of them remembered how long they fought, but it ended with Sam straddling Amy's waist, pinning both of Amy's small wrists to the ground on either side of her head. Sam's hair fell in a brown tangle around her cheeks, and she saw that Amy was crying once more. Green eyes glared into brown, and they both saw the change. They were both changed, for better or worse, by Middle Earth, by war, by bloodshed, by this whole damn quest.

"Let me up," Amy growled, and her voice was so unlike her usual soft, worried tones that Sam wondered what woman she had pinned to the ground instead of her friend. But she rolled off her friend, helping her to her feet, feeling acutely aware of all the pain spots on her body. Her cheekbone was swelling up, and Amy had the beginnings of a black eye. Amy didn't drop her gaze – Sam wondered again where her usual friend had gone. Amy came abruptly close to her, her thick red curls actually touching Sam's shoulders. "Like it or not, I'm coming with you, Sam," Amy said, and her voice broke from the strain. "I'm coming with you, and we're both going into this together."

Sam touched her bloodied lip and suddenly grinned like a loon. Amy cocked her head defensively to the side, questioning, probing, uncertain. "You could have convinced me without beating me up. I swear, you're PMsing or something." Sam told her, pressing the side of her hand against her hot cheek. Amy dropped her gaze shamefacedly. Sam grinned at her. "All right, but we're going to have to get you suited up in some proper armor."

* * *

><p>On the slow, grassy blue slope leading to camp, two figures stood, invisible to the world. One was a brawny, blonde-haired man, with a neat golden beard and blue eyes that mirrored the sky at twilight. His very stance bespoke power and aggression, for there was a decided jut to his chin and throw of his shoulders that boasted of his very being. There was no sword at his hip, nor shield on his arm, and unlike his companion, he was not riding a horse. He folded his arms across his barrel chest, and he looked towards the camp and flexed his strong shoulders, smiling to himself. Next to him, a fine silver horse tossed his made and his nose made small circles, pluming white clouds of frosty air into the chill of the night. The beast itself was huge, larger than the average horse, but slender and swift, with a regal tilt to it's proud, arched neck, and dark, liquid-black eyes. On it's back was a warrior, with dark hair twined behind him in dark plaits, his fine, handsome features reflected in the glow of the orange moon. He was wearing armor, but his golden-haired companion was wearing only a tunic and leggings, a cocky smirk twitching his mouth. "Are you ready for battle?" The golden-haired Vala said with a grin.<p>

"Aye, that I am," Orome answered softly. "Your plan is risky, Tulkas."

Tulkas waved his hand dismissively. "We will show the Elves and Men how to win a war! These women shall have our blessing, and they will fight such a battle that their images shall be carved into the stars. Their story shall be passed down from generation to generation, my friend. And we shall be responsible for their glory!"

"And also responsible for their deaths," Orome said drily. "Nienna predicts death in their future."

"Their fair companion will fall, what of it?" Tulkas said casually. "She is unworthy of glory – at the moment she is feasting on the blood of innocents as she cavorts with the dead."

"I do not fear for her," Orome snapped, his short temper rising like a snake in the grass, "but for the young one, the one whose ways are so delicate. She should not be in battle."

"She has love to tether her to this life," Tulkas said with a smile. "And with our blessing, she will be free to pursue it."

Orome shook his head, and the two Valar began approaching the camp slowly, their figures shimmering in the dim light.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Wow, this chapter is pathetically short, but I have to post it, mostly because I feel incredibly guilty for not updating sooner. I also updated "The Two Suethors" a few days ago – please check that out and tell me what you think. Thank you once more for supporting me through this difficult time; my muse is slowly returning. Here you go, please enjoy!**


	7. A Little Less Drama, Please?

As Sam waited for Amy to emerge from the tent, she looked up at the deep chasm gutting through the mountains. There had been faint echoes earlier, but now all noise had been quieted by the overwhelming fear that was tangible in the air. Horses stirred a little, whinnying and bucking in the sight of the huge mountain, but the most palpable fear was in the men. Their movements were stiff and mechanical, glancing at the roaring black mountains with alarm and terror, licking their lips often and talking to each other in deep, low voices, expressing their fear with their gestures and words. A little knot of soldiers stood close by her, huddled together for that last dying ember of companionship that would be extinguished when battle broke upon them. They were murmuring among themselves, and Sam's newly attuned hearing picked up their conversation. One of them, a bearded fellow with a shield on his back, spoke up first.

"There is only one reason why they would leave on the eve of battle," He said, his voice holding a barely contained emotion, something like simmering anger.

"They fear failure." said a younger man, teetering on the cusp on manhood, his scruffy blonde beard still growing in. Sam looked up, her brows coming together in a confused tangled embraced.

"He was not a good general," the third man said, a scowling man with a blonde thatch of hair hanging in his eyes. "Aragorn, son of Arathorn, coward of Gondor."

Sam shot to her feet, kicking over the stool she had been sitting on. The three men looked up, and before they knew what was happening Sam was right in their faces. "How dare you!" She snarled. "Aragorn is twice the man you'll ever be!"

"If that's true, then why did he leave with his companions in the dead of night?" The bearded man demanded. Sam recoiled a little, confusion etched on her lips.

"He wouldn't run away," Sam snapped. "He has a good reason. I'm sure of it."

"There is no excuse for departing on the eve of battle, Lady," the scowling one said, the slash between his eyes deepening. "What other reason would he have but to run away and spare his own life?"

For the first time in her life, Sam didn't react angrily. Her boiling anger licked up like flames tonguing a dry stick, but for some reason, a cool sense of calm trickled across her mind, and she stopped gouging grooves into her palms with her nails. "You don't know him like I do," She said coldly. "So shut the hell up." She turned on her heel and went back to where she had been waiting for Amy. Perhaps because they feared she would report them for mutiny, or maybe they had gotten tired of complaining, but for whatever reason, the three soldiers departed. Sam buried her face in her hands and growled to herself. Why would Aragorn and his friends leave? She knew Aragorn – he would fight to the death if a cricket died unjustly. He wouldn't leave the army unless there was a good reason to. But what if he hadn't left by his own accord? What if someone had kidnapped him? No, she decided. Aragorn would have raised absolute hell if someone was capturing him, and Legolas wouldn't have let any Orc or Uruk go without a good fight. Gimli would have had to be dragged away from the battle by his beard if Aragorn was in danger. Actually, that would apply even if Aragorn wasn't in danger – the dwarf just liked to fight. All of these thoughts vanished like an icy mist in approaching sunlight when she heard the flap of the tent behind her.

Sam almost didn't recognize her.

It wasn't the armor which threw her – although that changed her drastically, hiding her petite figure under a series of metal plates, the leather ties knotted firmly at her elbow and shoulder. Knee-high boots were also armored, protecting her shins, and there was a shield belted to her arm and a scabbard at her belt. The pommel of a rustic sword protruded from the sheath, and in the crook of her arm was a helmet. Her eyes – those once soft green eyes were set and determined, empty of emotion and expression, almost resigned and coldly casual about where they were going. No, it wasn't the change in her demeanor or the frosty sheen to her green eyes; it wasn't the old, battered, scuffed armor which sheathed her from neck to knees. And it certainly wasn't the sword in her hand, or the shield strapped to her arm, for Sam had seen her fight with a sword before, although the shield might be more of a harm than a help.

It was the hair.

Instead of the unruly red curls hanging halfway down her back, she had sliced off the dark red curls and left a mop of short, wavy red hair that hung awkwardly in her eyes, giving her a completely alien appearance. The freckles covering her visage were framing her cheeks seemed darker than usual, and she glanced at Sam with a light blush coating her face. "Well?" Amy asked. "How do I look?"

How could she explain?

How could she say what she was really thinking? What had happened to the short, smiling, motherly girl who had babied her friends and meditated through all the disputes? Where had the adorable, fragile, romantic girl gone? Why was this rough, savage, cold warrior standing in front of her, and what had she done with her friend? But Sam couldn't say any of these things; instead, Sam swallowed and licked her lips dryly. "You look...tough." She said truthfully. "Like a real warrior." This was true – whether or not Amy could act like a real warrior remained to be seen. Sam hadn't seen Amy squash anything larger than a beetle since the second grade.

"Good," Amy said firmly. She shoved her helmet on her head and Sam saw the last traces of her friend disappear between a sheet of metal and the loss of her trademark red hair. Only the eyes peered out from the helmet, and even those usually soft green orbs were determined and set. But there was a flicker of fear, somewhere down in the lowest regions of her mind, and Sam was glad to see that. Because only stupid people went into a battle without fear. Or, Sam mused, people who had been blessed by the Valar. That was besides the point, she decided. Amy adjusted her shield and looked at it worriedly. "I don't know how to use this shield," She said after a moment. "But I think it might be smart to use it."

"Not really," Sam said sharply. "If you don't know how to use it, shields can hurt you more than help you." She took a deep breath and looked directly into her friend's eyes. "Okay, here's the game plan – I want you to stay near me, okay? You're going to stick to me like glue, because if you don't, I can't help you. I can't help you if I can't reach you in time. Okay? Stay with me, but if I tell you to run, I want you to run like absolute hell."

"I'm not running," Amy said stubbornly. "I'll stay near you, sure, but I'm not going to run away. I promised myself I wouldn't do that."

"And I promised myself I'd keep you alive," Sam retorted. "I'm not going to go through life knowing that you could still be alive if you'd listened to me."

"Oh, yeah, and you're the best person to take lessons from," Amy sneered, "Seeing as you never follow orders."

"I follow my own orders," Sam growled, actually stabbing a finger at Amy, "and if you want to live, you'd damn well better follow mine too. If you hadn't noticed, at least I keep myself alive."

"So running away will keep me alive?" Amy said angrily. "Acting like a coward will keep me alive?"

"Yeah! And I want you to stay alive at all costs, okay?" Sam said. She gripped Amy's shoulders, forcing her to look back at her. "And listen to me – if I say don't look, don't you dare look."

"You mean when you kill Lizzie." Amy said, her eyes deadening. "You don't want me to see you killing her."

Sam swallowed. "Yeah. When that happens."

"You still think she's going to be there?" Amy asked, her eyes sorrowful. Sam looked out at the satiny sky beginning to break into fabulous golden colors.

"Yeah. I think she's going to be there."

* * *

><p>Lizzie perched on the pinnacle of a tower, her hands gripping the leather bridle of her mountainous beast, struggling to stay astride the wide barrel back. This was sinfully easy – her dragon did the majority of the killing, but somewhere along the way she had picked up a set of javelins she was hurling pretty much blindly at the other side. Whether or not they actually hit anything was beside the point – she was having fun, or something of the sort. There had been one moment where she hesitated, one split second of weakness when she was confronted with a young boy holding a spear. He had to be only fifteen or sixteen years old; not much younger than herself. He looked like he had just begun shaving, but it wasn't his youth which disturbed her. It was that raw vulnerability in his eyes, a pleading sort of terror that shook her just slightly. He must have seen it in her eyes, because her used his split second advantage to turn around and run away.<p>

He didn't expect a javelin in the back the moment he began to run.

Now, soaring and wheeling above Osgiliath, she felt a twisted sort of freedom. There was a certain sort of liberty, sitting here high above the battle, feeling the pure muscle of the beast beneath her. But at the same time, there was a confinement. A duty. She always had to be evil if the bad guys won. But was evil the best possibility? She mused to herself as her dragon clawed a handful of troops and hoisted them into the air. As the soldiers were dropped, wailing, to their deaths, she shrugged. Evil would do – the Ring would be the perfect accompaniment to her hand, she decided, automatically glancing down at her mailed, armored wrist. Besides, how good could they be if wanted to destroy the Ring? The Ring was the ultimate good; anyone who wanted to destroy it was an idiot. She launched another javelin and heard, with a twist of grim satisfaction, a howl of pain somewhere off to her left.

But there was always Amy.

To be perfectly honest, Lizzie didn't quite know what to do when she confronted them. To be sure, she would meet Sam somewhere along the road, the trashy brunette spitting mad and ready to do battle, and Lizzie decided she would have very little trouble slicing off her head. The two had never gotten on well – perhaps that was an understatement. They fought like cats and dogs at every opportunity, but there had always been an underlying respect for the warlike girl, a sort of awe for the gutsy, pushy, bossy, savage girl who bullied her way through highschool and life itself. But if she had an Orc kill Sam, far away enough for Lizzie not to see or hear it, perhaps all would eventually be well. Amy, on the other hand...Lizzie didn't know what to do. Amy was too nice to turn evil, that was certain – it would be worth looking into some mind control substances or spells from Sauron. All Lizzie knew was that she didn't want to kill Amy. The silly little redhead was something like a little sister – a dumb, crybaby sister, but still a little sister. And anyway, what good would killing her do? Nothing, Lizzie decided. Amy was a weakling, a coward, a wimp. She wouldn't try to overthrow her if she let her live. She had shown nothing but terror and repulsion towards the Ring, and Lizzie was certain that the Ring wanted her to succeed. The Ring wouldn't put her on the throne just to be usurped by a whiney little redhead.

The dragon, which had up until this point been perfectly content killing soldiers, decided it needed a break, and quite abruptly landed on a broken, crumbling pillar, stretching it's wings. Lizzie shrieked a little and clung on all the tighter, but now that the constant up-and-down movement of the wings had stopped, she could look around with clearer vision. Most of Osgiliath had been ground to smoldering, crumbling ruins, and there was an eerie quiet veiling the city. She lifted her visor and looked around; everybody seemed to be either dead or looting corpses. Several parties of Uruks were sawing the heads off the slain Gondorian soldiers, and Lizzie bit back bile. This was an excellent reason to destroy the Uruks and Orcs as soon as she was Queen. They were disgusting brutes, really. She shook her hair and blinked several times, rotating her jaw. Her ears whined, then popped. After almost a full day and night of fighting, she was hungry, tired, but not the slightest bit injured, except for some chafing on the inside of her thighs. She stretched, cracked the joints in her spine, and then goaded her dragon to the ground level, feeling the now-familiar _whump_ of the back feet taking off. When they landed with a bone-jarring, teeth-ratting wham, Lizzie slid off with as much dignity as she could muster.

"Enough of that," She snapped at the nearest beheading Orc. The monster looked up at her, confusion on it's ugly, tattooed features. "That's gross. Cut it out."

"Orders come from 'im," The Orc hissed. "Not you. Back off!" He actually snapped at her like a rabid dog, and Lizzie saw an unnatural glow in his eyes. She scrambled back atop her dragon, actually quivering a little. Apparently battle did funny things to Orc's brains, and she wasn't going to be around to see them behead any more soldiers. She carefully drove the dragon through what used to be the streets of Osgiliath, until she reached the very outskirts, where a particularly ugly Orc was issuing orders atop a Warg. She was hard pressed to find who was uglier – the squash-faced, yellow-complexioned, squint-eyed Orc, or the foaming, snarling, snapping, shuddering Warg. The dragon she was riding on let out a hideous bleat, and the captain turned, puffy eyes fixed on Lizzie. A stubby-toothed smile split his face.

"It's always good to see your Ladyship," the Orc growled. "But we are fighting a war. We'll call yeh when we're preparing to move forward."

"Move forward now!" Lizzie insisted. "I'm not tired – and your ... soldiers ... aren't tired. They certainly seem to have enough energy to cut off the heads of all the bodies. So we'll move forward now, when they're unprepared."

The captain seemed to think this over for a moment, and then a crafty gleam alit his eyes. "Ladyship, you can take a full regiment and proceed ahead," He said, in a croaking voice that belied his deep, sickened amusement. "My warriors and I will prepare the next phase of our attack. You are free to move forward." He barked something in a strange, guttural tongue, and a few Orcs stepped forward. After a few more orders in Orcish, they departed, apparently rounding up the healthiest Orcs to proceed into the next phase of battle. The squash faced captain grinned toothily. "You are free to execute your plan, General."

_General_?

She liked the sound of that.

She didn't realize – typical blonde – that the captain merely wanted her dead and out of the way.

Like a fox, she snapped up the bait that would lead her to her doom.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Here you go! Battle scene between Sam and Lizzie coming up! Who do you think will be the victor? xD **

* * *

><p><strong>butterflyninja935: <strong>Yeah, we kinda did know that already. But we just confirmed it. Anyway, by the end of this, I think Amy will be more mentally unbalanced than Lizzie or Sam. Delicate types, y'know.

**dizzydaydreamer: **Everybody changes – and yes, Amy's is the most drastic and startling. But the character developments have been more of coaxing out what was already there. Lizzie was an Evil Overlord long before she came to Middle Earth, and Amy was a warrior queen – she just didn't know it yet. And yes, Sam was the same bloodthirsty gal back home, too. 8D

**princess of fiction: **You're welcome. 8D

**Patriot16: **Pint sized...oooh..I like that. 8D Amy certainly is a sweetie, isn't she?

**Lobo de fuego: **Wow! Thank you for your kind review! It means a lot to me, especially coming from a person who doesn't especially like girl-falls-into-M.E. stories. I hope you keep reading and enjoying my stories!


	8. The Beginning Of The End

This is the beginning of the end, she realized.

The throbbing energy connecting the army was tangible in the air, invisible to the naked eye but still sensed by some deep, primal part of themselves. They knew they were going to their deaths, and welcomed it. Amy, for the first time in her life, realized what Sam had meant when she said she was born for this. Sam, sitting next to her on Alandur, looked so calm and collected, her face actually bearing a light grin flickering at the corners of her mouth. Amy felt her stomach twist unpleasantly on itself as she looked at the seething mass of Orcs and Trolls rip through the walls of Minas Tirith. Her mouth was dry as cotton, and every sense was on high, screaming alert, fraying at her nerves as she heard the low, thrumming growls of the battle ahead. Glandur shifted impatiently beneath her, and she stroked his wide, powerful neck, her mailed fingers unable to feel the coarse mane under her skin. To her left, Eowyn and Merry clung to each other, and she could feel the fear coming off the small Hobbit. She felt closer to him than she had in her entire life; they were frightened in battle together.

The spear in her hand felt weighty and clumsy, unable to drive into anything, except perhaps the ground. She had never used a spear before, didn't know how to use the shield on her arm either. The dull roar which was the battle ahead of them began sliding into a higher octave, something wilder and more animalistic. Amy realized the hoard had shifted and was looking straight at them, their slitted nostrils sniffing the air like wolves, their eyes narrowing as they took in this new threat. Theoden, his crimson cape rippling over his shoulders, slapped the haunch of his horse and shot down the line of his troops, glaring into their faces, seeing the strong, hardy determination overlapping their fear. He extended his spear, allowing his to rattle against the line of jutting javelins, the noise tinny and warped beneath the layers of the battle ahead of them.

"Arise, Soldiers of Theoden!"

His voice was deep and powerful, full of vibrant energy, and the black clouds overhead seemed to quake in fear.

"Arise, Sons of Rohan!"

Something stirred within Amy, a caged lioness ready to snap her chains.

"Shields will be splintered, and swords shall be broken!"

She lifted her chin, her lower lip stiffening resolutely.

"A red sun, a dying world, are waiting for our survivors! But we shall reign over this world, we shall honor our dead! We shall fight! And we shall win this thrice-accursed war! Ride now, my brethren, ride for Rohan and for the families we leave behind in this world!"

As if one single mind connected them all, the horses reared and struck the skies, charging forward towards their deaths and their dooms. It was all Amy could do to hang onto the spear with both hands and grip Alandur's sides with her knees, her hips threatening to crack from the strain. Orcs in the front lines knelt, readying javelins and throwing daggers, and behind them, a line of archers were poised to release their salvo of arrows. She didn't hear the command, but all at once the black-Orc arrows leapt through the skies, burying into the breasts of the horses, the noble beasts rolling and pawing in the mud and the fresh, cloying blood. Javelins sang through the air, the thick, crude weapons impaling soldiers and pinning them to the ground, their hands grasping feebly at the instrument of their downfall, the life ebbing from them and into the frozen, bloodied ground.

The ranks hit each other with the force of a tempest, and Amy felt the bone-jarring sensation of her spear colliding with Orcs, something solid, and the shuddering feeling rippled up her arms and paralyzed her shoulders. Her whole back went numb with the sensation, and it took every ounce of strength to jerk her spear from the gut of the Orc she had impaled. The creature was still living, thrashing and grasping at air in a pool of its own black blood, but she lost sight of her victim under the tumult of hooves crunching bodies beneath their iron-shod feet. She dimly felt her spear roll from her numb hands, and she pawed for her sword, hoping against hope that nothing would kill her in the meantime.

It felt as though a train had hit her, when the sword clove across Glandur's barrel chest. The beautiful golden horse which had carried her so nobly fell to the ground, legs still bucking, still trying to fight the war his master was fighting. He rolled twice, back legs kicking madly as his blood surged from his veins, and Amy felt the breath leave her body. Several somethings cracked, and blood bubbled up in the corner of her mouth, her vision dancing into vivid black waves. She pulled herself up on her forearms, unable to believe she was still alive, the pain knifing into her chest with each ragged gasp she took. The strong golden horse was now twitching, his body being trampled beneath the hooves of his own race, a grayish tinge covering his liquid black eyes. She pulled herself a few feet nearer to the strong beast which had saved her life at the Warg skirmish, and tugged her mailed hand off with her teeth, allowing her fingers to touch his wide sides.

She felt his life leave, felt his last guttural exhale, and the majestic horse died on the field of battle, never to rise again.

* * *

><p>Sam didn't know where Amy was.<p>

That was the first, most driving thought in her mind. She had lost her only friend, her only companion, in the raging battle going on around her. She had heard the brutal, womanly shriek as the arrows hit the horses, but when Sam had turned to her, she had been gone. That meant only one thing: Glandur had been hit, and Amy had gone down with him.

She couldn't go against the crush, because the tide of horses was too strong; she'd never get anywhere. But the very idea of Amy lying broken on the ground spurred her, her mind going blank as she tried to turn Alandur around. But the war-horse knew what he was supposed to do, knew whatever his master told him to do in battle was wrong. He kept going forward, and Sam actually screamed in frustration, sawing at the bit to turn him around. But even though the horse's mouth broke open and blood mixed with the foam striping his surging neck, he kept going forward, kept following his instinct.

Sam's sword swung through the air, biting deep into the corded neck of a Uruk-hai, sending the monster reeling into the side of another rider, and the rider plunged a sword to the hilt through his head. Sam's eyes blurred from the bloodshed around her, the massive death permeating the air. She tasted it, felt in grate against the adrenaline in her system, and roared again into the skies.

A piercing shriek screamed through the air, bursting eardrums and souls as it passed, the drake swinging through the air again as his rider called for the Ring. Sam almost dropped from Alandur's back, clapping her hand over her ears, trying to block out the awful, horrible noise which snapped the skies, making the heavens go taut. Orcs fell beneath her feet, but that noise, that awful ringing noise was unbearable. The monster's claws dipped to the ground, raising clawfuls of wriggling horses and riders high over their heads, and then dropped them easily, the wings buffeting the air into channels.

It was then that Sam saw a flash of gold against the black armor of the Nazgul.

And her mind connected dimly: How many Nazgul have blonde hair?

The beast landed with a sickly crunch, slaughtering riders as it landed, and Sam looked towards it, trying once more to wheel Alandur around. And then she saw her, in all of her glory, in all of her disgusting blood and armor, her taunting smile twisting her mouth cruelly, those bright blue eyes sparkling maliciously. Those high cheekbones and full lips pouted harshly, a thorny rose against the background of death. Alandur kept going forward, but Sam needed to go back – back to Amy, back to Lizzie, back to her childhood, her past, her former life. She dropped from her horse's back, landing hard on the ground, the air knocked from her lungs.

The riders which thrust past her didn't see her, didn't realize why she was going _towards_ the fell beast which was causing so much devastation. Sam lunged forward, until she had reached the large clearing which the beast had opened, until she was standing not ten feet away from her former friend, which was now her enemy.

She couldn't hear over the clashing, throbbing battle, but she saw those plump lips mouth the words.

_You lose. _

It was then that Sam saw the stag.

That gorgeous, huge, silver stag, his pupils dilated, his horns reaching to the heavens. His broad, stable back, furred with sleek silver fur, was too beautiful and elegant for the backdrop of destruction and chaos, those long slender legs dancing between the corpses. And beside him, that colossal, gigantic, yellow bear, his towering frame blocking out the sun, daylight itself captured in his fur. And as the stag's eyes locked with Sam's, the stag winked out of existence.

Sam closed her eyes, taking a single breath.

Something alien flowed through her veins, almost like a cool liquid bubbling under her skin. She felt her mind detaching itself listlessly, as though another presence were occupying her mind and her thoughts were no longer needed. Her muscles felt tougher, longer, stronger, and her whole body shook with energy.

When her eyes opened again, they glowed pure silver.

_A hunter and its prey._

Her sword shot to her fist and she pounced on the long, muscled neck of the fell beast, the blade sinking into the sinuous throat. Three quick hefts of the blade and the massive head of the beast dropped in a pool of sticky green blood, the body thrashing and quivering as it collapsed. Lizzie leapt from her defeated mount, growling obscenities under her breath, unsheathing her dual swords, the long blades twitching.

"Sam! Give it up!" Lizzie screamed over the sound of battle.

Their eyes met, and Lizzie faltered. Those weren't Sam's eyes – they had no pupil, no iris, no whites. Just two orbs of shining, glowing silver, as though stars had fallen from the sky.

"I'm not Sam." The foreign warrior said, the alien person occupying Sam's body. The voice was deeper than the earth itself, smoother than the oceans, older than Time itself. That voice shook the heavens and caused the black clouds to split open, a crack of daylight piercing through and illuminating the battle below.

Their two blades met in a shower of sparks.

* * *

><p>She felt the life flow into her crazed, smashed pulse like a brook forging through mossy banks.<p>

Her green eyes flickered once, and she looked up at the wide, gentle brown eyes staring at her, those huge eyes surrounded by a mask of pure gold. She reached up and stroked the thick golden fur, feeling the softness caress her fingers. Those eyes, those eyes filled with ancient time and space, the rising and falling of worlds and galaxies.

_Courage, little one..._

And she got to her feet slowly, hearing the distant roar of Olliphants approaching. She wove through the seething mass of Orcs as though through a dream, the pain separate from her body, a distant cloud of emotion which had no point. Nothing tried to stop her, no Rider paused to look at the small soldier drifting towards the flapping, dying drake, no Orc tried to kill her. Later, she would think this was miraculous in itself, but at the moment all she could think of was Sam.

And then she saw them, the two of them dancing ruthlessly in combat, their blades scraping against each other, ready to slaughter each other at the slightest motion. They circled, hungry hawks ready to tear into flesh, their muscles tense and their shoulders taut. "You had your chance, Sam!" Lizzie snarled. "You had your chance to come with me. But you can still make it up," Lizzie said, her voice rising with the wind, "you can still come with me. We can still rule."

Sam said nothing, merely shot her blade forward and felt it blocked by the thinner edges of Lizzie's twin blades. Amy kept moving forward, drawn by a morbid fascination, unable to tear her eyes off the sight of her sneering blonde friend. And then Lizzie caught sight of her, and a terrible laugh spilled from her lips as she looked at the redhead.

The movement was so fast that Amy didn't even see it; everything happened at once. Lizzie dropped to a cartwheel, Sam's blade slice across Lizzie's back, and the blonde woman withdrew a throwing dagger from her boot.

The dagger was a glittering streak in the air before it buried itself squarely in Amy's chest with a thump.

Amy blinked once, twice, looking at the hilt in her breastbone, and then fell to one side, hearing the distant boom of battle die away in her ears. The last thing she remembered was a pair of soft gray eyes weeping silently.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: (takes off hat) And there is really nothing more to be said...**


	9. Who, What, When, Where, Why?

The sensation of being controlled left her the instant she saw Amy sink to the ground, life ebbing from her eyes.

It was replaced by pure, white-hot, undiluted rage which shook her body to the foundations.

Not six inches away, lying on the bloodied ground, was the treacherous, dying girl who had mocked Sam but loved Amy. The three of them had been through so many uncountable quests and squabbles, arguments and fights, that the scars had rippled into one another and were simply that – scars. Painful memories better left alone. The jagged line from her sword had rent a gaping maw in the back of her armor, slicing cleanly through the black metal and penetrating her mail shirt. Already there were rust-colored roses blooming on the ground, blood seeping slowly from Lizzie's back. Her face was ashen white, and those high cheekbones and full lips now looked stretched and worn, a faded, tacky Halloween mask instead of the vibrant, gorgeous girl Sam had known and loved. Her blonde hair was stained with her own blood, but the tips of her fingers were stretched towards the body of her friend, that redhead who had staunchly stuck by both of them, the wise, sensible girl who had negotiated all of their fights and disagreements. For a moment, Sam was filled with a nauseating horror that both of her friends lay dead, alone, crushed by the roar of the battle around her. The grief filled her senses, blocking her throat with in indelible rock of madness which bottled up her breath. The sound overwhelmed by the noise of the battle, Sam dropped to her mailed knees and stared at the face of her enemy, her friend, her rival.

"You killed her."

She turned that messy golden mane of hair, loose from it's once-tight plait, towards her, those lips stirring soundlessly. The anger shook her again, pulsing shocks of electricity that made her vision cloud and moisture bead her body. "You bitch, you killed her!" The words were a cracked, moaning shout, taut with horror and laced poignantly with fury.

The word came out as a whisper melted beneath the searing noise of the war around them.

"..._Sorry..._"

"You think that'll cut it?" Sam said, and now the tears came, hot, horrible tears which branded her ruddy cheeks with stains of her weakness. She couldn't see, couldn't breathe, the grief was suffocating her under a blanket of sorrow and wrath. Her lips felt too thick, her tongue too dry to say anything, but the words spilled like water from a broken, crushed dam. "You think saying sorry will make up for everything that you've done? You killed her, you killed her, you killed her! Why? She never did anything to you! She never did anything to _anyone_! I _loved_ her, you heartless _bitch_!"

Words weren't enough anymore – her hand shot to her hip and jerked the dagger out of the sheath, the same dagger that Galadriel had given her, the beautifully intricate blade. And she drew it back, raised it near her cheek, and prepared to plunge the shimmering steel length into the breast of her friend, her enemy.

But she couldn't do it.

It ran deeper than emotional, the feeling was purely physical. Her elbow and shoulder froze, back tightening as she tried to bring the blade down. But she couldn't. She looked into those eyes and saw them wet with tears, and above all, a broken, shattered remorse.

Those eyes, those eyes which had beguiled and tempted every boy in their highschool, those eyes which could be filled with laughter, hate, rage, and love all at once. Those eyes looked out at her from her destroyed, mangled body, pleading for forgiveness from her chalk-white face. Fraught with pain and tempered with fear, those eyes screamed for mercy.

And it was the power of that mercy which stayed her blade.

In the corner of her eye, she saw the shine of the blade, a glossy, unused luminescence. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't bring herself to let that blade fall, bury it in the traitorous chest of Lizzie. Those eyes wept, now, haunting her with grief and the begging forgiveness. Because this was beyond pleading – this was groveling, a shameless begging for forgiveness that the prideful Lizzie would never have brought herself to do.

And then, it did, descending with a rapidity that surprised even her. The tip sank into the dirt near her head, sinking to the hilt in the blood-soiled earth, inches away from Lizzie's cheek. Those blue eyes wept two big tears, and those golden-flecked brown eyes locked onto those smoky blues with a savage ferocity. "Don't you _dare_ look at me like that," Sam hissed in her ear. "Don't you _dare_!"

Lizzie turned her head, her cheek hitting the bloody mud which streaked her hair, and those long-lashed blue eyes flickered dimly. A gauzy white veil fell over those eyes, and Sam felt the life literally disappear – like a candle being blown out. She looked at her murdering enemy, best friend, for a moment, and then rocked back on her heels. Tears were streaking down her cheeks, and the battle around her had subsided to a dull, muffled crash, like the surge of waves on the beach. She crawled on her hands and knees over to her redheaded friend, that gentle, sweet Amy who had always been the peacemaker, always been attached to both of them with a fierce, bold, sisterly love. She tugged the helmet off her face, made her look less like a battle warrior pretending and more like the little girl she was. Because that's what she was, really, when it came down to everything – a child. An innocent, foolish child who trusted and gave love unconditionally. Sam pushed the tangled red curls out of her eyes, and the tears in her eyes blurred out that sweet, round-cheeked face.

The strangled sobs coming out of her chest turned to raw, primal screams as she clutched the fragile, dead body to her, hugging the slender body, covered in bulky, awkward armor, closer to her. Her heart was breaking, shattering into a thousand irreparable pieces as she shrieked to the dull, cloudy gray skies. She didn't see the armies charging towards her, didn't see the Orcs swinging their rusty swords, until the entire line was almost upon her. And even then, she welcomed them – tilted her head back and bared her throat for the waiting blades to sink into her exposed neck, that chink between her helmet and her breastplate. But it didn't come – the pounding feet of the Rohirric and Gondorian soldiers thudded around her, and an Orc fell to the ground, already thrashing in death, dangerously near Amy's body. Sam didn't move an inch, just kept holding Amy as if she could transfer the immortality to her friend, give the life that Orome gave her into the breath of another.

A curse.

He hadn't blessed her, damn it. He had cursed her, a terrible, cruel curse which now forced her to look at her friends, both dead, her only ties to the real world. Her screams actually burst through the din of the battle, piercing and clear, slashing at the skies as she poured her grief into one long, anguished, agonizing cry which rubbed her throat raw and tore into her chest. When her breath ran out, she simply crouched there, sobbing her heart out, her shoulders shaking as the battle raged around them.

* * *

><p><em>Warm.<em>

Oh, the delicious feeling of being clean...

She opened her eyes, lashes parting slightly, and blinked. She had expected to feel creaky, stiff, sore, and old, but she felt...well, amazing. Better than amazing – _wonderful_. She sat up, looking around her, pushing back her red hair – which had somehow grown back to her usual shoulder-length curls – and blinking. She was in a soft, lush little glen, with the trees decked out in their most welcoming, festive green leaves, their branches melding into one another and creating a canopy above her. Warm golden light peeped shyly between the boughs, stroking slender shafts of twinkling sunlight into the glen. Beneath her hands and feet, the grass was thick and short, green bristles warm beneath her skin. The thick trunks of the trees were rough and broad, but tall and stately, fanning their beautiful foliage over her as they greeted her arrival. She stood, stretching the kinks in her back and shoulders, and looked down at herself. She looked...well, great. She looked even better than she felt. The tiny imperfections which had once marred her skin were gone – the small acne scars near her temple, the scar on the back of her wrist from falling off her bicycle when she was ten. But what was most strange was that she was dressed in her old clothes – cutoff jeans and an orange graphic tee-shirt, long since demolished in the rough-and-tumble world of Middle Earth.

"That didn't take you long, lady," said a deep, rich voice behind her. She turned, drawing her brows together, and her eyes widened when she saw who was speaking. He was tall, impossibly tall, perhaps six and a half feet, with a wide, steel-bound muscles that were exposed under his sleeveless tunic. Long golden hair fell to his shoulders, shrouding his open, handsome face with a sheaf of blonde hair which fell in his bright blue eyes. Laughing eyes – that was a cliché which Amy's old English teacher would have killed her for. But she knew now that eyes could laugh – and these large blue eyes, fringed with thick golden lashes, were laughing at her merrily. The clothes he wore were beautiful and intricately designed, a silver tunic falling to his knees, with white leggings beneath it. But the clothes were too materialistic, too earth-bound for the vibrant aura which shimmered around him, an unearthly glow which seemed to be just beneath his skin, as though he had swallowed the sun itself. He approached her, and she noticed both of their feet were bare. "It seems as though I left you just moments ago." He said, that rich, baritone voice gilded with a deep rumble.

"What do you mean?" Amy asked, coming nearer to him. She was very short, petite, and her head barely came up to his chest, but somehow she wasn't frightened. He was so gentle, she could see it in his eyes, and she smiled up at him, cocking her head to one side.

"You saw me, did you not?" He said, and extended his hand. She slipped her hand into his, weaving her small, narrow fingers beneath his big, calloused ones. They strolled slowly out of the glen, their bare feet hitting the red clay, the textural difference making Amy look down. "The golden bear who rescued you in the battle."

The pain was distant – she couldn't remember Sam's face, nor Lizzie's. It didn't seem very important, somehow. "Oh, yeah," She said. "Thanks for that, by the way." She looked up at the huge branches spanning the path above them, smiling a little. "This place is gorgeous," She sighed.

"Yes," He said, that open, honest smile dancing on his lips again. "The Undying Lands are always beautiful."

She paused for a moment, trying to remember why that sentence was important. "The...Undying Lands?" She asked, her brow creasing slightly. "You mean..this is sort of like...heaven?"

He shrugged. "I suppose." They continued walking until they reached a small stream, the clear water rippling over a bed of sandy brown rocks and meandering out of sight. Tree roots were mossy and exposed, slippery and damp from the spray, and Amy could feel the coolness and moisture in the air. "Little Amy," he said, that deep voice making her voice sound wide and expansive. "Brave little one, you have done so much." He turned her face towards his, his wide, calloused palm cupping her chin. "But I'm afraid I must ask you to do one more thing."

"What?" Amy asked, turning her trusting face towards him.

His knuckles skidded over her cheeks. "Go back."

"And do what?" Amy said, her voice fuzzy and her mind blank. "What would be the point?"

"Brave little one, you always bring hope, even before you came to this world," He said softly. "Hope shines in your hair and lights your eyes. It glows beneath your skin like the purest moonlight. Can you not see it? Hope lingers around you like a fine perfume, and you must bring this hope to others, to help them see."

She didn't say anything for a long moment. And then, in a voice which sounded soft and tired as a newborn kitten, she sighed, "Can I go home? Please?" Her eyes sparkled with tears as she looked up at his handsome face. "I miss my parents, and my siblings. I miss them so much it hurts sometimes," She said.

"Brave little one," He said softly, the words sounding like a lullaby. "I'm afraid there is nothing I can do. The gap between the worlds had been closed; there will be no further transfers between worlds."

"I don't understand," Amy said, and her lower lip tugged into a little pout. "Why did my friends and I end up here? Why us?"

"You were merely the ones who fell through the portal first," The man said gently. "There was no special selection – if my brethren could arrange it, we would send you back to your own world, your own time. But with the death of your friend, Elizabeth, the gap was sealed. It sealed only moments ago, and now the breach is fixed. Lady Samantha and yourself will stay here, forever."

Amy scuffed hastily at her eyes, blinking away tears. Never see her parents again. Her family. Those stupid pets which caused her so much trouble. "But...why?" She asked, sounding like a small child. "Why? Can't we go back?"

"No, little one," He said, and then held her against his solid, comforting chest. She cried a little, still quivering, and then looked up at him with a damp face and puffy eyes.

"Why do I have to go back? Why can't I stay here, then?" She asked. He dropped a kiss on her forehead, a fleeting connection between the two.

"Because your story is not yet finished, little one. Your time has not yet come. Now, go back, back to where you now belong."

* * *

><p>She stirred once, blinked her eyes, and then looked around. The hospital was blindingly white, sterilized to a high gloss. The continual, steady beep of her heart monitor pinged faintly in her ears, and she turned her head on the crisp white pillow. Her scalp felt oddly light, and she raised a hand to her head. Her long, golden curls were sheared off, buzzed close to her head, and she shook her head blearily. There was a small plastic tab on her finger, a wire trailing up her arm and down her shoulder, and tubes were submerged in her nose. It was hard to breath, as though she were in a glass cube, and she coughed once. The action hurt, pain scorching up her ribs, and she vowed never to cough again. The glass around her was waxed to a high shine, and she caught sight of her reflection in the reflective surfaces.<p>

A deep, ragged pink scar slashed across her temple, down her cheek, across her mouth, and across her chin. Stitches still crossed the chasm, and she stared hard at herself. She remembered she had been pretty, once – but the rest of her mind was a blank, wiped disc.

There was a stirring next to her, and she saw a blonde, tattered head lift itself and two puffy, blotchy eyes looked at her with numb shock. "Honey?" Said the woman in a cracked, frightened whisper. "Honey, darling, Lizzie, are you awake?"

She turned her head a little, looking at the strange woman, and shook her head a little. "Who are you?"

"Who am I?" The woman gave a choked, nervous little laugh, thick with tears, and she squeezed her hand tightly. "I'm your mother, sweetie. Your mommy."

None of this made sense to Lizzie, and she tried to clear the blankness, the emptiness from her head. Who was she? Where was she? Why was she here? These questions were answered by the woman still clutching to her hand in a painfully tight grip. "There was an accident, honey, a terrible accident. You were out with your friends on your motorcycles, and...a car didn't see you. Sam pulled out too quickly, and the car couldn't stop. It wasn't his fault, really," The woman said, sounding as though she had struggled with herself for a long time about this fact. She squeezed Lizzie's hand again. "Honey, I'm so sorry, but...Amy and Sam are dead. They died just a few hours ago."

This didn't make sense either. "Who...who are they?" Lizzie asked.

Glossy, wet tears rolled down her – _her mother – _face. "They were your friends, honey. Your best friends."

"Best friends?" Lizzie said, her voice weak and strained. "Are you...are you sure?"

"Yes, baby," Her mother said, cradling her closely. "You were best friends. Forever."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Annnnddd...Tell me what you think! xD**


	10. Drifting

He heard her long before he saw her.

The wailing of the women was already beginning, their cries rising above the muffled din of looting. Girls and women, orphaned children, were already overturning bodies looking for loved ones, husbands, fathers. But the screams he heard were rough, horrible barks of horror and fear, shrieks of raw, physical pain, and his sharp eyes focused in on the soldier kneeling on the battlefield. Gimli and Aragorn, walking next to him, heard it as well, and their brows furrowed as they looked for the source of the terrible screams. Legolas's dark cerulean eyes found the warrior, and he knew. He knew. A sharp, cloying pain, fusing his muscles and turning his bones to lead, told him. Because the soldier kneeling was too slender, the downturned face fringed in dark brown hair, and when the warrior rocked back on their heels to scream again, he saw her clean profile. It was Sam, her sword thrown aside next to her, her shield a battered metal disc near her knees. She was clinging to a corpse, hugging a small frame to her, and Legolas felt nauseous. He was going to be sick, he knew it – because the soldier Sam was grabbing had red hair and a petite, short frame. Too small to be a warrior.

Gimli didn't know why his Elven friend broke into a run, for his eyes were not as sharp as Legolas's. But when he saw where he was running to, he knew, and Aragorn grabbed his elbow. "Don't, Master Dwarf," Aragorn said quietly. "Do not halt his grieving."

Sam was wild. Her screams had faded to low, primal coughs, her throat burning and raw, her voice nearly gone. But why hadn't the world stopped? Why were the first tinges of pink dawn streaking across the skies? Amy's body was not yet cold, still had a spark of life in it, and Sam clung to her, as though she could transfer her own immortality to her friend. A large hand dropped on her shoulder, and through a gauzing veil of blurred tears, she saw Aragorn next to her. Legolas plunged to his knees, his plaited blonde hair swinging in his eyes, and his long fingers were snapping at the buckles on Amy's armor. He tore the breastplate from her chest, tossed the metal aside, and brushed the short red curls from her eyes. His limbs were frozen, and a expelling of breath came between his teeth, his heart bleeding into the cold, frozen ground beneath him. _This could not be happening_. Why had she gone out? Why was she even in this battle? And then the tears came, they came thick and fast, burning tears which blistered his soul and tore his heart, tears which did not heal, only hurt. Tears of things not meant to be. Tears of things unfulfilled.

"Samantha, she is gone. Please, release her."

"NO!" The word, full of savage anger, hoarse and powerful, the sound of a lioness protecting her cub. "NO! Get away! _Go away! Now_!"

Two hands – one mailed, the other bare – latched around her elbows and brought her to her feet. She thrashed, head whipping from side to side, hair flying, and she looked up at Aragorn. His scruffy beard was wet, his eyes exhausted, and he was soaked with the blood of his enemies. "Please, Samantha, let Legolas grieve. We shall arrange for her burial." Aragorn promised, and shouted in pain as Sam buried her teeth in his wrist. His hand jerked from her shoulder, and she pounced over Amy's body again. Legolas was smoothing the untidy red curls away from Amy's face, and the ragged, broken sounds which were coming from the grieving Elf were painful to hear. Aragorn rubbed his wrist, looking at the dark teeth marks, and Gimli turned his head aside, wiping his eyes. "How much more will be taken from us?" Aragorn asked aloud. "How much more must we suffer until Sauron's scourge has been lifted from the land?"

Legolas's stream of Elvish, mixed words of grievance and curses, seemed to create a tapestry for the death and suffering around them. Mothers and wives, children and babies, they all looked for solace in the impassive gray clouds. The Valar looked down on them unfeelingly, and their mingled screams of grief wove through the blood clotting on the ground. Minas Tirith, the beautiful White City, was in ruins, and their families had been ripped apart. Legolas's Elvish was a poem, a song, a prayer for his lost love, for the flayed heart which had once been reluctantly in love with the young girl. And then, he finally went limp, his head resting on Amy's body, one hand gripping her wrist as though he could still feel the pulse coursing through her veins. Sam had collapsed, lying on her side like a wounded animal, and she made no move to stop Aragorn when he slung one of her arms around his shoulder. Half dragging, half carrying, Gimli and Aragorn brought Sam to the House of Healing.

And Legolas was left alone with the body of Amy.

In a cruel twist of fate, the sunrise which burst over the battlefield was magnificent to behold. Dazzling streaks of red blushed the clouds, accented with subtle tinges of gold and orange, and a sliver of fiery crimson was peeking over the mountains. The gray clouds began to part, and as the silver dawn faded to give way to a brilliant sunrise, all of Middle Earth began to grieve. For no matter how bravely they had fought, no matter how hard they had won their battles, the scars would never fade. They would always be there, mourning their loved ones, wishing they could to something, anything, trade their lives for one moment spent by the sides of their loved ones. Those who had never lost began to feel the storms of gray bleakness blanket them, and those who had lost almost everyone began to feel nothing at all. And still, he stayed there, one word running through his head, nursing his pain.

_Why? Why his Amy? Why her? Why? Why? Why? _

But it wasn't over yet.

The story continued.

A touch, feather light, whispered along his ear, and the sensitive point tingled. He drew his head up, and felt his stomach turn over in shock as he was met with a pair of gentle green eyes. Green eyes, exactly the color of leaves coming out in the spring. Green eyes which had been brave, terrified, filled with love, fear, hate, and anger. Green eyes which reminded him of his home, which _were_ home to him. And those eyes were so tired, so bone-achingly weary, and his breath stopped in his throat. Her voice was the weak rasp of a kitten.

"Hey, Legolas."

Fumbling, questing fingers, ghosting across the side of her face, slipping beneath her unresisting head, cradling her nape as he tried to remember how to breathe. A thousand questions tripped from his tongue, stumbling over each other in his mind and never making it past his lips, and a low, hoarse moan spilled from his mouth. "_Amy,"_ He breathed. "Amy, melamin, what happened?"

She shook her head, unable to find words, merely closed her eyes and gave in to the overwhelming rush of unconsciousness.

* * *

><p><em>Green.<em>

She remembered that color. It was familiar – known. She remembered green grass, the tickle of it beneath her bare feet. She tried to remember other things, other places, other feelings, but it was too much and she let herself drift. She was lost in an ocean of her own consciousness, aboard a boat of her own imagination, somewhere gone and back again. Disjoined images and flashes tormented her – leering Orcs, roaring Uruks, screaming Nazgul – and had she been awake, she would have been horrified at the sound of her cries. Good memories were few, and she was left fighting battles over and over again. As with most nightmares, she was shackled to her own tortures, the keening sounds of battle searing her body and leaving her thrashing and convulsing. She could feel the hot spurt of blood over her hands again as she sent her blade biting into the throat of a Uruk. All over again, she felt the loss of Sam, felt the missing gap in her life, but she couldn't remember who Sam was. Whenever the feeling got too much, whenever the raging battle reached it's peak, she drifted.

It was easier to drift than to think.

Every muscle was latched together, and her tongue was cloyingly dry. It took every ounce of strength in her body, every shred of willpower, to crack open her eyes. Light, dim and purple as it was, still burned her vision, a stark contrast to the blackness in which she had been drifting. And it _hurt_, God, it hurt. Everything burned. But there was something important, something she had to grieve for, something she had to do, and she tried to open her eyes again. She was able to open it a little more, crack open her eyes a little wider, and everything was so fuzzy she wondered where she was. It became an exercise – fighting to open her eyes, to take in a little more of her surroundings, before she had to drift. Time was elastic, stretchy webbing which was of little consequence. An image which stayed with her was the sight of a huge golden bear – muscular and gigantic, broad-shouldered and massive. For some reason, this was also important. She couldn't remember how.

Noise hit her for the first time in decades.

" –_awake_?"

Tan. Gray. The stench of something rotting. Burning flesh.

_Drift._

Hard. Soft. Blankets around her waist. Brown eyes. The tickle of growing hair around her neck.

_Gone again._

And when she was finally able to open both eyes and keep them that way, there was quiet. She welcomed it. Her brain began to furtively test what was known and what was not known.

_I am Amy Ricker. _Known. _I am seventeen years old. _Known. _I am in Middle Earth. _Known. _I was in a battle. _Known.

_My best friend killed me._

Known.

_Drift._

Ah, her boat was waiting. It was easier to drift than to feel pain. She was afraid the pain would stay with her, scar her. Her boat ground against the shores, waking her from a dream which went unremembered, unknown. And then it happened – hit her with the force of an earthquake, a tsunami, a raging storm. She felt the cool blade of the knife slip between her ribs, the hot pain, the drifting so similar to this. But she couldn't drift again, couldn't force herself back in the boat. She began to cry out, thrashing, but something was holding her still, keeping her from moving. She felt carrion tearing into her flesh, razor sharp claws ripping shards of meat from her bones, the branding pain riveting her. Ugly, black, mottled faces of Orcs, bared yellow fangs, rotting black teeth. Crude, guttural grunts which compromised their language. One of them raised his blade, and she actually _felt it biting into her neck_ -

She remembered the scream.

The sane part of her welcomed it.

Restraints had pinned her to the bed, coarse ropes tethering her in place. A leather strap had been worked between her teeth, and she felt half-healed sores along her swollen tongue and wounded mouth. Sweat, a sick, cold sweat, had soaked her skin and plastered her red hair to her head. She bucked her hips, trying to free herself, and then she felt a hand on her shoulder, pressing her against the mattress. "Shh, _melamin,_ shh. Be still."

The touch soothed, and she found herself unable to drift again. She saw the lithe, lean form of Legolas leaning over her, and she relaxed visibly, allowing her head to loll back against the thin pillow. His deft fingers worked the gag from her mouth, the knots from her wrists. "You were injuring yourself," He whispered, his voice low. "The healers had to keep you from hurting yourself. You were biting your tongue, screaming, clawing at your side."

"..._Lizzie..._"

"She is gone, Amy. We found her. Samantha is arranging her burial."

The tears did not come. She wanted them to, wanted to cry, but the well of emotions in her mind had been tapped to extremity. So she let him hold her, let him weave his fingers between her own, and for the first time, she did not drift. She simply lay there, willing herself to focus onto his voice, which was murmuring a low, steady stream in Elvish. And as long as he kept talking, she could forget the Orcs. The carrion. The Nazgul. She could forget Lizzie.

In years to come, both Sam and Amy would suffer from night terrors. They were far more vivid from usual nightmares, far crueler and more emotional. While Sam would see every single Uruk she had killed, Amy would just see Lizzie. Just see those big blue eyes and blonde hair. And the three of them, Amy, Sam, and Lizzie, would always know that they were separated. Amputated. Ripped apart. Broken. Never to see each other again. And she wouldn't allow herself to drift, because the pain wasn't accompanied by tears. It went beyond tears. She felt scooped out, numb, hollow. Cold. Only Legolas's hands were warm.

Her short red hair hid two pointed ears.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I am sick. For the first time in almost a decade, I am properly and truly sick. Which is funny, because usually it's my kids getting sick, not me. So now James is running around the house trying to keep up with all the chores, and the kids are running wild. I'm sure this chapter is full of typos, so just try to read around them. Gah. Good night.**


	11. Betrayed By The Mind

She haunted her.

Red hair, green eyes, worried frown, it all drifted before her gaze. That sweet, tearful voice. "Why did you kill her, Sam? _Why_? What did she do to you?" Over and over again Sam tried to explain, tried to tell her that she was _protecting_ them, but her mouth couldn't move and her words clogged her throat. And Amy would always give her that awful look of utter disdain and disbelief before leaving, long red hair bouncing over her shoulders. Sometimes she saw Lizzie, but she always saw her on the drake, long blonde hair plaited behind her, red lips twisted in a sneer. She never saw her young, laughing, smiling, long tanned legs stretched out in front of her. At night, when she lay curled in rough sheets, she saw Uruks before her closed lids. Their slobbering maws, dark greasy hair swinging, yellow fangs bared as their swords and spears descended on her. So she stayed awake, not wanting to close her eyes and relive the horrible screeches of battle, the shriek of metal against metal. The monotone thud of drums, the guttural roars of trolls, it all tangled in her mind and created a dark, sticky webbing of horror which kept her burning eyes from closing. No matter how exhausted her body was, no matter how tired her muscles became, none of it worked. Occasionally she paced, relentlessly back and forth, limbs quivering, bathed in a hot, feverish sweat, but mostly she just lay still. She would lay on her bed and pretend she couldn't see Amy crying, Lizzie dying, herself sending Lizzie to the grave.

Days blurred together, overlapping weeks until she didn't know day from darkness or sunshine from midnight. She didn't care, either. Every day, a woman would come with food – sometimes Aragorn would come, but Sam couldn't see him. He talked, but she couldn't hear. It was as though the slain Uruks and Orcs in her head wailed louder to accommodate Aragorn's soft, rumbling words. The water they bathed her in was always too cold – too cold for her hot body, her inflamed eyes, and the bandages they wrapped her in itched too much. Still, she would lie perfectly quiet, on her bed, barely blinking, seeing blue and green eyes dance in her vision. The only time she fought or struggled was when they tried to pry open her teeth and pour sleeping draughts down her throat. Sam had sunk her teeth into the wrist of one of the nurses, hissing and spitting like a wildcat, and that had been the end of the sleeping potions. Because they didn't understand – when she was asleep, then the nightmares were never ending. The Orcs kept killing her, Lizzie kept murdering Amy, and she killed Lizzie, over and over again. A continuous reel of memories, like a sickening horror movie. And everything came back – the stench of blood, dying horses thrashing in the muddied earth, the taste of metal in her mouth as she slaughtered her friend.

She forced herself to stay awake. Scratching herself, biting herself, to keep the nightmares away. Sometimes she couldn't help herself and fell asleep anyway, but it was always brief, light spells of dizziness instead of actual slumber. Sam, in a moment of cunning, had broken a pottery jar used to hold fresh water, and kept a shard of it. Watching through dull eyes, Sam lay in bed as a nervous young girl cleaned up the broken pieces. The light scratches Sam inflicted on herself weren't deep – always shallow, so they would heal before her next bath. But it kept her awake.

Away from the nightmares.

* * *

><p>"How is she?"<p>

The woman standing before him was tall, bone-thin from sudden weight loss, dangerously slender, and had unruly red hair. The fiery curls had been recently shorn off, and they hung around her collar and tickled in her eyes as though the hair had a mind of its own. The tunic she wore looked too big on her, sagging on her thin frame, and he saw that the tips of her ears were slanted. Her green eyes were brilliant, big orbs of fresh green, and she looked as though she was a fretting woman – elf, he reminded himself. He sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Not good by normal standards, but she's having a good day from her recent behavior. She's been pacing all night – I could hear her."

Amy looked at the young soldier in front of her. In her new, sharp perception, she could see the deep worry lines around his mouth and eyes, the scruffy blonde hair hanging to his jaw in little tangles. She had been in bed with a blinding headache several days ago as her senses adjusted. Legolas had been off with Aragorn making plans of war, and she remembered wondering how Sam had suffered through this. Her whole body ached from her muscles stretching and her bones lengthening, and she nearly came down with a cold. Turning into an Elf wasn't easy. With a start of bewilderment, she realized the soldier before her was handsome. On his left hand was a thick wedding ring of beaten silver, and a brief, random thought flashed through her head – _lucky woman_ – before she was back to business. "Is she..." Amy swallowed hard. "Is she dangerous?"

"Very. Nearly bit the hand off my wife." The man growled, and Amy saw he was deeply angered. "I would go in there with a poker and a leash, if I were you. A little more hair and dirt, and she'll pass for a wild animal."

"She's a war hero," Amy snapped, unable to help herself, her loyal blood rising.

The man snorted. "So is every man out there." He stated bluntly. With a little grunt, he unlocked the door. "Be careful, lady. I'll be right here if you need help."

Amy took a breath and went inside, hoping she would recognize the woman she saw.

She didn't.

The proud, willful, jealous, loyal, bitter woman who had fought through so much was pacing restlessly back and forth. Her hair was a shaggy, unkempt mess, tangled into mats from her near-constant pulling and worrying. Her nails were short, dirtied, and jagged from chewing, ragged and bloody to the quick. Those eyes – once so sarcastic and friendly – peered hatefully from behind a curtain of brown hair. Amy just stood there, jaw slack, the door shut firmly behind her, and expelled a breath in the silence of the room. "Sam?" She asked, her voice querulous and shaky, jittering like her nerves. "Sam, are you okay?"

"I didn't mean it!"

The words were explosive, torn from a savage woman, and Sam lunged at Amy. The redhead yelped in shock and fear as the brunette threw herself at her, landing with a harsh thump on the stone floors. She felt Sam's hands clutch frantically at her calves and ankles, and heard the raspy, broken sobs break through her chest. "I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I didn't know she was going to kill you! I was trying to protect you! I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Amy, please, please, I'm so sorry, please, I'm sorry!"

"Sam, it's okay!" Amy begged, dropping to her knees and trying to look at Sam's eyes. "Sam, it's okay, it's me, it's Amy! I'm not going to hurt you, I promise!" She tried to capture Sam's face, keep her still, so she could reason with her, but the crazed young woman was beyond broken.

"I'm so sorry!" She sobbed, open-mouthed cries which resembled depraved screams. "Why, Lizzie! Why did you kill her! Why did I kill _you_?"

"She didn't kill me, Sam, I'm right here!" Amy pleaded, crying herself, trying to keep Sam from thrashing around and hurting herself. "Sam, Sam, it's me! It's okay! You'll be fine!"

"Dead, gone, sorry!" Sam screamed. "I'm so sorry, please don't hurt me!"

The two girls fought on the floor, both of them crying, pleading with each other, both of them blind to the world around them.

Amy felt two arms wrap around her waist and she was torn bodily from Sam, pinned to the wall, her cheek rubbing against the scrubbed sandstone. She heard a flurry of movement, and she kept crying out to her friend. "Sam! It's okay, it's me! Please, Sam, you're okay!" There were other people in the room, and she didn't understand _why_ – and then she heard Sam's keening wail, a cracked shout ricocheting off the walls, and then stillness. Amy's struggles slowed, and she gave up, melting in her captor's arms, sobbing, her tears staining the subtly gritty wall.

Finally, the arms of steel around her relaxed, and she turned around. Before her was the fine-boned, handsome face of Legolas, the skin around his beautiful blue eyes creased with worry. "Ssshhh, Amy, relax," He whispered in her ear. "There is nothing to be done for her. Come with me, you need fresh air."

"What happened?" Amy demanded, her voice jagged and uneven. She couldn't bear to break the connection their touching hands made, but instead gripped his fingers all the tighter. "Why is she like that? Why, Legolas, what happened?"

He said nothing until they were near a window, until the chilly spring air could dry the tears on Amy's pale cheeks. With her new transformation, her freckles were gone, and he wished more than anything that she could have stayed exactly the way she was. He wanted her flaws – needed them, craved them. He lowered his head, twining his fingers with hers, and looked at her sorrowfully. "War is not easy, melamin," He said softly. "Sam's mind is gone. There is not much to be done for her, Amy. The only cure is time and relaxation – she may never sleep properly, and she will never be fully recovered. There is nothing you can do, Amy."

"There has to be something!" Amy whimpered. "There has to be! I can do something, please, I can do anything!"

"Ssshh," He soothed. "There is nothing to be done. No, Amy, look at me," He said, capturing her chin and forcing her to look at him. Her tear-filled green eyes were glazed with trauma and terror, and he needed to make her see. "Amy, there is _nothing_ to be done. The only thing you can do is to keep seeing her – every day, as much as possible. Amy, believe me – there is _nothing_ to be done. I have seen this before. It has happened to friends, companions – they are lost in a world of their own. They will come out only when they are ready."

"Stop saying 'they'!" Amy growled. "She's not a patient, she's Sam!"

"Yes, she is," Legolas told her. "And Amy, you cannot get pulled down into her world. Do you hear me, Amy?" He asked, and gave her chin a little shake. "Amy, you cannot get pulled down into her fantasy. Remember that you are _you_ – you are _alive_, and anything Sam raves about is simply that – raving."

"She's not crazy!" Amy hissed, pulling herself from his grasp. "She's not!"

"She is," He said simply. "Temporarily, she is. Amy, you must face it, or you shall go mad – Sam's mind has left her. No matter her strength, no matter her courage – she has been betrayed by her own mind, and she shall not recover until she realizes you are alive."

Amy slid down the wall, burying her face in her arms. Sam, the strong one, the sassy one, with her attitude and mouth, her flippant attitude and swearing. Gone.

Betrayed by her own mind. Lost in a fantasy.

_Gone._

_Lost. _

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Short chapter, but I'm sort of inspired by the Hunger Games right now. The whole family is going to go see it in theaters, courtesy of James's boss, so of course we had to read the books. That's actually why I haven't updated in so long – sorry for that. But seriously – WOW. Incredible books, amazing trilogy. I could go on all day about it, but instead I'm just going to leave this chapter in the hands of my capable readers. **


	12. Not A Good Time?

Sleep was an elusive creature which Amy did not have the strength to tame. Instead, she wandered – up and down the wide stone stairs, through hallways, following whoever caught her eye or occasionally just meandering purposelessly. On this particular night, Amy sat with her knees drawn to her chest, looking out over the parapet and onto the tapestry of suffering below her. The once-mighty city of Minas Tirith was in crumbling ruins; great jagged squares of white marble were in piles of rubble, the bodies of Uruks and men still piled in heaps. Many had been working relentlessly to help the wounded, to bury the dead and give them a respectful burial, and Amy privately chastised herself that she was not among them. And still, she could not bring herself to go any closer to the smell of death and destruction – she could not listen to the bereaved, pray for them, and assist the wounded. It brought back sharp, thick memories which brought her to the brink of her nightmares, daring her to plunge into the darkness. She fought – just as Legolas told her to do, just as she told _herself_ to do – she fought. She wandered at night because she couldn't sleep, and she drew up every happy memory she could think of when she felt the images of dying Uruks swarm before her vision. More often than not, it didn't work – but she still tried, still fought bitterly. So when she felt herself losing her grip on the slippery edge of reality, she went out here, to the parapets, and sat on the long, flat lip of the wall which offered her a dizzying safety. When she was feeling poetic, she said she was reenacting her life in Middle Earth every time she came out to sit on the wall – to her left, solid ground. To her right, a terrifying drop which promised a swift death. Both seemed equally preferable in her mind, when her nightmares clung to her.

Sam had shown no signs of recovery – still quiet as the grave, staying very still, and Amy could hardly bear to see the proud, beautiful face haggard and worn. And yet she still went – every day, to talk and soothe her friend, tell her memories they had shared, pranks they had pulled. None of it snapped Sam out of her reverie, her trancelike state which frightened Amy and made her wish even harder for home. Trying to adapt to her Elven body was another whole monster which she was having difficulty reasoning with; Sam was far tougher and had a higher tolerance for pain than Amy did, and the near-constant ache of lengthening bones and flexing muscles had Amy grinding her teeth and biting her pillow. Blinding headaches which burned her eyes and throbbed dully behind her skull sprung up whenever she concentrated with her new, improved vision. Although, over time, her senses were adjusting, it was still difficult. Everything was difficult. Amy wracked her brains to remember the last happy moment she had spent in Middle Earth; in her fatigued body and dull mind, she couldn't think of one. Except that syrupy, lazy afternoon they spent drifting down the river, shouting out Disney songs and swimming. That had been magical. And terror and death were right around the corner, as always.

The moon above her was a dull orange sickle which curved, horned and pockmarked, against the gauzy silver background of the sky. A chilly zephyr teased at her curls, nipping color into her cheeks and pointed ears as she hugged her warmth close to her, gazing out at the dark silhouettes of houses and shadows beneath her. Her new, sharp senses pricked – her hair stood on end and the once-absolutely silent Legolas was heard at her elbow. The nearly-imperceptible crunch of rubble beneath his light tread alerted her, and she relaxed when she heard his warm, smooth voice near her ear. "Still sightseeing, little one?" He murmured, resting the heels of his hands on the wall edge.

"Just thinking," Amy responded quietly.

A low hum of approval. "May I inquire as to what?" Legolas asked politely.

"Everything. Sam, me, you, us. My life. What's going to happen in five minutes." Amy told him, her gaze steadily fixated on the darkness beneath her. Her voice broke, shivering with fear as she whispered the last few sentences. "Wondering what will happen to you. To me. Why I can't go home."

Legolas reached for her, elegant fingers brushing her arms. "I was wondering when my Amy would return," He whispered in her unruly mop of red hair. "The little girl I know, the one who worries and frets, the one who will not allow herself to relax for more than an instant. I feared I had lost you, melamin."

"What did Sam say?" Amy queried aloud, voice dull and flat. "Everyone has destinies, and it's up to us to fulfill them? I think I fulfilled mine, Legolas – I think I just want things to end. To stop."

She felt him freeze behind her. "You do not mean that, Amy," He said softly, an undercurrent of fear in his tone.

In an instant, she was over the wall and standing in front of him, her new, eerie reflexes aiding her. They were nose to nose, and he saw she was taller than she had been, still thin from lack of sleep and food. Those pale green eyes were brimming with tears, and her whole body was taut with tension and anger. "What if I do? I'm tired of losing people, Legolas! I lost Lizzie, I lost Sam, I even lost _me_! I want things to go back to _normal_, Legolas, and normal for me isn't with you. It isn't in Middle Earth. I can't – it's just – I'm not strong enough, Legolas! I'm not! I never will be! Because if I keep losing people, then I'll – I'll go as crazy as Sam, I know I will, Legolas! I want it all to _stop_! I want the ride to end. It's over. I don't want to be here, anymore, Legolas."

Quieter, softer, barely noticeable: "I can't lose any more of my friends, Legolas. Especially you."

He reached for her then, burying his long fingers in her red hair and pulled her close, wrapping her in his arms, keeping her fiercely next to him. She cried, sobbed into his shoulder as she had done on so many other occasions, fisting handfuls of his tunic as she tried to keep herself under control. But she was lost in a torrent of grief, and it was all he could do to keep her steady, keep her near him, whisper endearments in her ear. And part of him was relieved – his old Amy had come back. She was brave, yes, she was a warrior, yes, but she was still _Amy_. Not some savage war queen. Just Amy. Mild, fretting, crying Amy, who threw up at the sight of blood and would do anything to save her friends. His Amy. He held her close, cradling her, wishing there were some way to tell her that he was leaving in the morning. There had to be a way, because he could not simply tell her, not when she was this broken, this hurt.

Neither of them knew how long they stayed there, embracing one another, but the sliver of moon smiled at them all the while.

* * *

><p>She slept.<p>

For the first time in over a week, she slept deeply and fully, not stirring to a single noise. The bed was small, slotted against the wall, and the blankets were perhaps a shade too thin, but her exhausted body craved the sleep. Legolas had been so sweet last night – but Amy wished she wasn't such a blubbering baby who would trip over herself all the time. Honestly, she had collapsed into his arms how many times now? Rubbing her eyes, she sat up, stretching in the soft, lazy sunlight streaking through the gap in the curtains. The room she slept in was shared with six other women, all of them in various stages of insomnia, and most of them were nurses or cooks. Of them all, Amy was the only one who stayed behind and didn't visit the sick house frequently; Amy visited Sam, and Sam only. But today she would change that, she decided. The women could always use a helping hand in the kitchens or taking care of the ill and injured. Maybe she could just talk to people. There had to be something she could do. And Sam – Sam would need a bath today. Getting out of bed, Amy began running over neat, organized lists in her head, feeling fresh and a little more cheerful than she had in a long while. She heard the distinctive rasp of paper against material, and she looked down, seeing an piece of parchment folded in half on her pillow.

Dread, dark and cold, curled around her abdomen as she picked it up. Any cheer evaporated.

_Dear Amy, _(Read the note)

_I cannot bring myself to tell you outright my intentions of leaving. Call me what you wish, I could_

_not look into that beautiful face and say that I am leaving for war. Even now, writing this note,_

_I feel as though I am a coward for not confronting you in person. Be that as it may, I can not sit _

_idly back and let soldiers march off to defend our home – for yes, it is _our_ home, despite your_

_thoughts. I shall not tell you our plans for battle, for I will not burden your unnecessarily. _

_But there is a chance that I shall not return. And if I do not, I want you to know that you _

_have stolen my heart, Amy. I love you – a thousand times over and over again – and if _

_I come out of this battle alive I swear we shall never be parted again. Part of me wishes_

_I could say this in person, but yet again, I must confess my cowardice. But know that_

_even though my words are written, my love is greater than the moon and stars. _

_If I should perish in battle, keep this note close to you person, to affirm my love for you. _

_If I return, I will take great pleasure in burning it next to you, so my declaration of love_

_shall be heard by your ears and told by my lips. I hope there is nothing but happiness_

_for us, for Sam, and for Middle Earth. Please, my love, I beg your pardon and crave your love. _

_Yours, a hundred times yours, _

-Legolas

She lay back on the bed, her eyes closed, breast heaving with suppressed sobs, and held the letter over her heartbeat. She would not burn it – Amy possessed absolute certainty that Legolas would not return. And also absolute certainty that if he never came back, she would simply cease to exist.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Oh, I'm a terrible person, aren't I? Please review – I'm really sorry it's so short, but I cut out about two pages of Amy angsting about something or other. And I didn't feel like writing more about Sam. So there you go. **


	13. Yayness!

It was a beautiful day. Cool and fresh, spring in the air, with a blush of pink skating across the sky. Lush purples and blues were closer towards the horizon, but the rim of the earth was hidden behind the blocky black silhouettes of houses. The walls were being rebuilt, so the day would be filled with the sounds of chisels, rocks scraping against one another, and the crunch of wheels turning in dirt. But right now, before dawn, the city was still and quiet. Yesterday there had been a massive burial for all of the soldiers, and Minas Tirith seemed to throb with grief, the very stones aching. Amy had stayed away from it all, still working, because she discovered the working hard helped keep her thoughts at bay. Thinking was bad, she discovered, because her mind went all sorts of places. Just the other day she caught herself planning Aragorn's funeral, and she had resumed scrubbing the floors with vigor. There was always work to be done – making meals, sewing, scrubbing, talking, or changing linens. Amy failed miserably at cooking and sewing, and there was no time to learn, so she was cleaning 'round the clock. She didn't mind. As long as there was time for her to visit Sam, she needed to fill her day up with something. There were some women who spent their days just talking to all the wounded soldiers, soothing their nightmares, telling them stories. Amy couldn't bring herself to speak to the brave warriors – she missed Legolas too much. It was too hard.

Sam was finally showing improvement, now that Amy discovered a valuable facet of information – Haldir was alive and well. For some reason, Sam remembered Haldir, and it brought her back, if only for a while. She questioned Amy, withdrew from her curled position for a few moments, asking about the injured soldier. Amy didn't know half the things Sam asked her, but what she didn't know, she simply made up. And just last night, Sam had finally recognized her. The two had spent a tormented, anguished hour crying with each other, apologizing and wishing desperately to go home, to see Lizzie again. Sam didn't remember much of the battle, but she remembered killing Lizzie, remembered fighting the drake. And Amy remembered the death of Glandur, the proud dark horse who had carried her so nobly. Sam had eaten a little and drifted off, either unconscious or blank again, but Amy was glad of the breakthrough. If it would last, she had no idea, but it was a start. Part of her wished Sam would stay sick, so there would be something to strive for, but then she would feel overwhelmingly guilty. And then she would think of Legolas again, no matter how many times she tried not to, and she would picture him dead, or wounded, or dying. Invariably, she would go clean again. It was something domestic, therapeutic almost, and Amy would wash dishes and listen to the soft whisper of voices in the House of Healing.

Abruptly, she left the room and padded downstairs through the large, expansive House of Healing. People were just beginning to stir, to awaken, and some of the exhausted women were just retiring to bed. Amy fled the house, going faster and faster through the barren, empty streets of Minas Tirith, running to the wall which was not far off. From this high up, she could see quite far, and there was a watchtower built especially for that purpose. On each level of Minas Tirith, there was another one, but this one was the highest and had the best view. Hurriedly, she clambered up the ladder, her newly attuned Elvish dexterity aiding her climb, and arrived, breathless and flushed, at the top. Sitting on a stool and squinting at the horizon was a fair-haired young man just beginning to grow a beard. The two of them had become quite well acquainted over the past few weeks, and Ewain knew she would be arriving soon. He patted the stool next to him. "A beautiful morning, Lady Amy," The boy said with a tired little smile. "I do believe we shall see blue skies."

"Maybe," Amy said, looking up at the heavens. They hadn't seen actual blue skies in – well, months. It had always been a glaringly gray sky, overcast and dreary, and now it seemed as though Ewain might be right. "That would be awesome, actually," Amy continued, squinting at the sky. "Hey, how's your dad?"

Ewain's smile brightened considerably. "He was up and about yesterday, trying out his new crutch. The Steward himself, despite his injuries, visited the House of Healing and promised that any farmers unable to farm will find sanctuary at the Keep. Is that not wonderful, Lady Amy?"

"Yeah, that's great," Amy muttered distractedly, looking hard at the horizon. It might have been her imagination, but – was there a smudge against the rosy skies? Her sharp Elvish eyes picked out a twinkle of metal, and a breath exploded from between her lips. "Oh, God," She whispered.

"What? What is it?" Ewain asked, getting to his feet. "What do you see?"

Amy ignored the last six rungs of the ladder, leaping to the ground and skinning her hands and knees. Blinded by tears, ignoring the pain, she bolted towards the road leading to the main gates.

"They're here! They're coming home!"

* * *

><p>Minas Tirith went ballistic. Women and children hung out banners, opened windows, allowed sunshine to pour inside. A cobalt sky, vivid and real, stretched majestically over the world as though it too were celebrating the return of the soldiers. Healers went into overtime getting beds open and cleaned for the wounded, boiling water, tearing fresh bandages from washed shirts. Everything was in an uproar, and people dressed in their very finest, rushing out into the streets to get lost in the pandemonium. Word traveled like wildfire – from watchtower to watchtower, from street to street, the shouted message rang out. "They're here! They're coming home!" New mothers clutched babies to their breasts and peered anxiously from windows, and young boys picked up toy swords and raced to meet their fathers and brothers. The glorious white sun roared down on the crazed capitol, and the broken white marble which lay scattered on the ground shone brightly. Even the ruins seemed beautiful, illuminated in such magnificence, and the ground seemed to bounce with happiness as the warriors came home.<p>

She tore through crowds, pushing past people and knocking over several barrows in her haste, tears stinging her eyes as every fiber of her hoped and prayed. Her hair, once a sheet of red, now a rumpled mess of curls, flew behind her as she dashed to the gates. Desperation tore at her throat as she helped draw the bolts back, the massive hinges creaking as the recently repaired doors opened wide. The army was closer – she could pick out the duller gleam of chain mail, and the winking flashes of spear points among the dust clouds. With Minas Tirith in sight, they had doubled their march and were rapidly coming closer. People crushed to the front, and there seemed to be a prayer on everyone's lips as people held hands and prayed for the safe return of husbands and fathers. Amy stood at the head of the crowd, tears spilling down her cheeks as she clenched her fingers together, trying not to hope but hoping anyway, irrepressible worry clouding her eyes. There was a disturbance somewhere behind her, something panicked in the mob, and Amy turned in spite of herself, not wanting to take her eyes of the wonderful sight of the returning army. But she couldn't pick out individual faces behind the blur of tears, and she hugged herself tightly, shutting out all noise, and just hoping, wishing, praying...

And she saw him.

Golden hair, like spun gold, shone in the sunlight, and even from a distance she could see the steely flash of his blue eyes. His horse, streaked with mud as it was, had a white coat which seemed to shimmer in spite of the dirt. He was tired, exhausted even, and but he was _alive_, _alive, alive_! And Aragorn was next to him, dark hair teased by the stiff breeze, dark and noble against the backdrop of his loyal soldiers. She could see the bushy red beard and glittering helmet of Gimli, and she saw they had all tried to clean themselves up and failed. They were all tired, but _alive_. Her friends.

She ran, and it was like breaking a dam – every wife and mother snatched their skirts and surged forward. Despite her Elvish reflexes, there was nothing graceful or elegant about the way Amy raced to Legolas, just a desperate, savage lope which ended with a bodily crash of her slamming into his horse. He laughed, a full, bright, merry laugh, and pulled her up by her forearm. She cried openly, sobbed, and grabbed at his tunic, pulling at him, trying to ascertain that his heart was beating, that breath was being drawn between his lips. He was shouting something, over and over, shouting something at her over the crash of people, but it took her a moment to pick it up, to discern his voice from the cries of the people.

_Melon le, melon le, melon le._

_I love you, I love you, I love you_.

She went to pieces, and the poor horse probably thought she was dancing the can-can, but she didn't care. They arrived at the gates, and the horses could go no further in the masses of people, and they began to dismount – Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, and a thousand others as they drew closer to the gates. Hands were everywhere, people grasping at Aragorn's tunic, his hair, his arms, wanting to touch the king, their savior, their triumphant hero. And voices, all inquiring if the war was won, was it over, were their loved ones safe. Legolas nearly broke Amy's ribs as he gripped her tight to him, burying his face in her hair, shouting hoarsely, "We won, we won, it's over!" And the crowd exploded, as though Minas Tirith screamed it's joy to the cerulean skies. They were _free_, unshackled, unfettered!

And just when Amy thought her joy couldn't be any more, when she thought she would explode from euphoria, she saw her. Sam, in her tall, proud, smirking glory, leaning against the wall, away from the hubbub. She was thin, so thin, and her cheekbones jutted from her face, but those big brown eyes were awake and sparkling. Her Cheshire cat grin was curling lazily around her mouth, and Amy beckoned her over, because she couldn't bear to break free of Legolas's embrace, frightened that he would disappear in the mob of people if she let him go. Sam fought her way over, nearly knocked to the ground from the thrashing rush, and finally met her friend in a hug.

As the sun burst in a dazzling display in the bright blue sky, Middle Earth was finally at peace.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Okay, DO NOT jump down my throat about the whole "Melon le" thing, because I know that isn't the correct usage. But it's what James uses around the house, and it adds a little touch of familiarity for me. At any rate, there will be ONE more chapter after this, and then its off to the mushiest, fluffiest, romantic fourth book you ever saw. Because YES, there will be Amy/Legolas moments and YES, there will be Sam/Haldir spats. I haven't written straight-up romance for the longest time, and I think the fourth book will be fun. xD **

**So, in summary: Do not be angry, there will be an epilogue, and I am writing "Well Behaved Women Make Terrible Wives". Dumb title, it's still in progress...**


	14. That Means No, Right?

The world was laughing.

She was sure of it – the moon was full, round and white as snow, and the stars jeweled the lush blue backdrop of sky. Inside the Main Hall, there was whooping and singing, ale flowing like water, and mountains of food which hadn't been touched. The celebration in Rohan paled in comparison to this – the feast was fantastic, the wine and ale demolished by the barrel, and there was so much singing and laughing that it melted into one harmonious roar in the background. They were finally _free_, the war was over, and there would be no more pillaging, no more scourges, no more villages burned to the ground. Middle Earth was crippled, but the storm had passed and repairs were being made – walls were being rebuilt, crops resowed. But nothing could replace the loss of loved ones, the missing gaps in their lives which could never quite be filled. Nobody quite knew where the King and his new bride has disappeared to, but as Gimli said, "Absence makes the heart grow fonder." The very air seemed to hum with delight, and Amy sipped the joy in the air, savoring the sweetness in her heart.

It was beautiful out, the whole world was smiling, and she was almost content. Amy smiled and sighed, stretching her arms and continuing her slow stroll along the deserted pathways in Minas Tirith. Sam was inside, probably flirting with Haldir – the silver-haired Marchwarden was the talk of the evening for his antics with the young girl. Upon seeing her again, without even greeting her properly, he ran up to her and spanked her hard, causing a swell of laughter throughout the crowd. The two of them had dissolved into much swearing, name-calling, and playful physical abuse, and Amy had watched laughingly. Sam was smitten, she could tell – but she wouldn't admit it for the world. No, Sam was too proud and sassy to even think of admitting she liked someone – Amy and Lizzie both had to drag it out of her whenever Sam had a crush.

As Amy's drew closer to the White Tree of Gondor, her thoughts turned to Lizzie. Such a stupid, beautiful girl, to be turned so easily to the pull of the Ring. But a friend, nonetheless. Amy sat down on the roughly carved stone bench directly beneath the gnarled, twisted tree, and propped her chin in her hands. Her previous good mood melted a little as she looked at her reflection in the pool. A lean elf with curly red hair frowned back at her, and Amy sighed. She had died in her old world, been thrust into a save-the-world quest against her will, and been killed again, this time by her former best friend. And then, to top it all off, she had been brought back to life in the body of an elf. It was hard to swallow, and Amy shook her head. She would never get used to it, not even if she spent the rest of her life trying to wrap her head around it. Part of her still longed to see the bustling streets of New York, hear the screech of the subway wheels, smell the asphalt and the pizza and the distinct city smell. She missed her family – her brothers, her sisters, even those annoying animals which irked her so much, and now she would never see them again. She would never sit in her room and stare at posters of Tom Hardy, wishing with all her heart that she was a movie star. She would never brush her teeth with an electric toothbrush, or watch TV, or eat Doritos.

"A frown does not suit your pretty face, my lady."

She smiled in spite of herself when she heard the familiar voice of Legolas behind her. Looking up, she saw the handsome Elvish prince dressed in a long silver tunic, belted at the waist, and dark leggings. His blonde hair was loose around his shoulder, except for the traditional Elvish warrior plait in the back. Legolas came up to her and quirked an eyebrow. "May I interest you in a stroll?" He asked, offering his arm. Amy stood, smiling a little, and accepted silently. He tilted her cheek with his hand, blue eyes quizzical. "You are quiet tonight, while the world is smiling. What is wrong, _wilwarin_?"

"Just...thinking," Amy answered softly, looking out at Minas Tirith. "Thinking of home."

His grip tightened around her arm instinctively. "Where is home, Amy?" He asked, his heart growing heavy. "For I know that home, for me, is with you. And it would bring me no greater happiness to have you with me in Mirkwood."

She didn't say anything for a long moment, just studied her feet. "Home isn't here, that's for sure," She finally said. "But I can't go to Mirkwood with you, Legolas."

His hard nearly stopped beating. The words lodged in his throat, but he finally got them out. "Not even as my wife?"

Amy turned to him, breaking their connection. "Are you...proposing?" She sputtered.

Those blue eyes were deadly serious. "Yes, I am, Amy," He told her. "Yes, I am asking for your hand in marriage."

"No, Legolas!" She cried, backing up. "No, Legolas, _no_, you can't do this to me!" She seemed on the verge of tears. "Legolas...Please, don't."

"Why, what is wrong?" He asked, catching her wrists and keeping her still. Those beautiful green eyes were huge and full of tears.

"Legolas, no. I'm only seventeen, Legolas, I don't _want_ to get married. Don't do this to me, Legolas. I can't go to Mirkwood with you, and I won't be your wife. I just...I'm trying to learn how to be a woman and an elf all at the same time, _and_ trying to wrap my head around the fact that I'm stuck here! I'm in a different world, Legolas, and I don't know how big it is. No, Legolas, I _won't_ marry you."

"Amy, I love you," He whispered, and he sounded anguished and horrified. Those eyes, oh, the beautiful eyes which had so entranced her, were confused and desperate. "Amy, I shall _always_ love you, wherever you are, whatever you do. I know this fact better than I know anything else, because I am not myself when I am around you. You – you _fulfill_ me, as though I was never really alive before I met you."

"No, Legolas," Amy said softly, tears spilling down her cheeks. "Please don't say that. Legolas, I – I don't know what I feel. There's too much for me to deal with, right now. My best friend _killed_ me, Legolas, and I'm in a new world! I'm sorry, I really, truly am, but I will _not_ marry you."

"Then come with me," He said desperately. "Gimli and I are going to Fangorn Forest, and we shall be visiting several Elvish cities. Come with us, Amy, please. I will go mad if I am not near you, I know I shall! Please, Amy, if you will not marry me now then I shall wait, I will wait until the earth _crumbles_ if that is what you wish! But, I beg of you, do not spurn my advances."

She stood on tiptoe and kissed him gently on the cheek. He felt her tears, damp and cool, against his skin. "I need to think about it," She whispered in his ear. "Give me a few days, okay?"

He watched her go, and part of him died inside when she left him.

* * *

><p>"He asked you to <em>what<em>?"

"Shut up!" Amy snapped, sitting back down on the bed. Sam was staring at her, horrified. "Yes, he asked me to marry him, and I don't know what to _do!_ What should I do? I mean, I'm not marrying him, I know that, but should I go with him? I don't know who else is going, and everything, but –"

"He's crazy about you," Sam said matter-of-factly, "And you always used to yell at Lizzie for breaking people's hearts. You can turn him down, he's such a sweetie."

"I _know_," Amy wailed. "I'm such a horrible person! But – I mean, I _can't_ marry him. I'm seventeen! What if Haldir just came up to you and asked you to marry him?"

"I would knee him very hard and then dump a bucket of water on his face," Sam stated calmly, "But that's because we have a different relationship. I _know_ you and Legolas smooch each other senseless when I'm not around – he looks at you like you're the best thing since toilet paper. Go with him, Amy."

"Will you come with me?" Amy pleaded, twisting her fingers. Sam snorted.

"Hell no! I'm not going to be the chaperone! Besides, I promised Galadriel I'd come back to Lothlorien." Sam informed her.

"I'm sure we'll be passing by there," Amy begged. "Come with me, Sam, I need support."

"You have Gimli for that."

"_I am not going to girl talk with Gimli_!" Amy screeched.

"Okay, okay, don't have a cow," Sam grumped. "Fine. We'll go. Happy? But only if we spend _extra long_ in Lothlorien."

"Deal."

"Pinky swear?"

Amy grinned.

"Pinky swear."

And that's how we shall leave the two girls, pinky swearing about their love lives.

_Yeesh_.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Thaaaat's all folks! xD I'm an evil, evil person, aren't I? I just got sick and tired of all the endings where Legolas and the OC get married. It's totally unrealistic – the two of them barely know each other. Sure, they've been through hell and back, but they don't _know_ each other. Am I making sense? I don't think so. Whatever. It's late. **

**CHECK OUT THIS FANART: It's INCREDIBLE. Izzy spent the past three days hogging my computer to finish it, and I'm super proud of her. **

**Lizzie: h t t p : / / s l e e k - o t t e r . d e v i a n t a r t . c o m / a r t / E l i z a b e t h - M c K e n z i e - 2 8 9 2 9 2 6 7 3 **

**Warrior!Sam: ht t p : / / s l e e k - o t t e r . d e v i a n t a r t . c o m / # / d 4 s 8 j d x**

**Pretty!Sam: h t t p : / / s l e e k - o t t e r . d e v i a n t a r t . c o m / # / d 4 s 9 1 m o (She did two of Sam because that's her favorite character. xD )**

**Amy: h t t p : / / s l e e k - o t t e r . d e v i a n t a r t . c o m / # / d 4 s 9 1 q l (She did two of Amy, too, but the first one she doesn't like) **


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